


The Prestige

by Maxs_Musings



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:54:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 112,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24774214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maxs_Musings/pseuds/Maxs_Musings
Summary: "You can either be a con or a man. You can't be both." Who is the con and who is the man? Peter or Neal? Neither or Both? Can Peter forgive Neal? Can Neal forgive Peter? What do Special Agent in Charge Kyle Bancroft and Former Assistant Special Agent in Charge Reece Hughes have to do with this con v man dilemma?
Comments: 14
Kudos: 11





	1. After that nothing was ever the same

NEW A/N: Top of the Day Readers! This is a little FYI for those of you who are already in progress with this story. Per a suggestion from an amazing and wonderful mentor I have made some stylistic edits to make the story (and it’s multiple languages) easier to read! 

A/N 2: Greetings and Salutations Readers: Thank you for taking a ride with me on the White Collar freight elevator (a popular place in the story.) This is my first every fan fiction. I acknowledge I will make mistakes, questionable choices and often times have a funny way of speaking. While I will attempt to stay true to the characters, I would like to warn you that this will go AU.

A/N 3: This is a flash forward in the story line. Chapters immediately following will be present day. This chapter is written in a different style than most others. Think of it as a cold opening.

“We all remember that moment in time. After that nothing was ever the same. ”  
~ Susan Bocinec Terry, Lost and Found

Lightening bolts imbrued the sky like the devil’s pitchfork on the hunt for weary and unsuspecting prey. Tree’s comminuted and spalled under the fierce and unrelenting torture. Thunder crepitated her war cry, for she would not go silent into the night, no she would be heard.   
  
Pluvial clouds opened up their chorus from the heavens above, for if lightening and thunder were allowed to show their might. Rain was going to display hers. The torrent scourged the travelers below, their exposed skin quickly bruising from the assault.  
  
Shelter. They must find shelter from the chthonic deluge. The man steadied his breath. He must keep calm and carry on. Not like damn tee shirt saying. No keep calm and allow her to spirit them to safety and with (hopefully) all body parts intact.   
  
He looked up at the lady above him, thinking of their body parts intact together. He shook his head. Why was he here? He didn’t even remember agreeing to this outing, this sojourn of storm. Well hell, it didn’t matter not at this point. All that mattered was getting off this djebel of doom.  
  
The sinewy man felt fingers slide into his. Before another thought could formulate she whispered into his ear, “please stay with me, please don’t go…” Lightening still snapping at the ground in an iniquitous macabre dance of eburnean light. Thunder beating her drum as if to add music to lightening’s theatrical glow.

“Go?” He labored out as his muted blue eyes skittered about the face in front of him. The long since extinguished telltale only for him smile was missing in action. The corners of her mouth were tight almost grim. 

He felt the watering soaking him through. His battered head rolled to the side with Herculean effort. A haboob of water was forming through the embowerment of trees surrounding them. He sighed, trees, wait, what? 

There had been a building? He was headed to the building, her building. Why couldn’t he locate the building? His Brobdingnagian hand tightened unconsciously around her petite one. Her head snapped up. Dammit all to hell, he wanted to interpellate just for a moment. Where was the building?

Breathe he commanded himself. He nodded down into the darkened yonder space just past her covered ears. She bit her lip against whatever thought popped into her head. In unison they worked to move him from the center of what he know realized was the street just off the backside of her building.

Shelter. They must make it to shelter. Gently and with great care working together against the storm and his broken body they managed to alight him to his naked and hemo soaked feet. Matching each other step for agonizingly slow step, which given their height differences was a feat all in itself. Feet, he looked down at her feet. They had to work three times as slow to match his stride.   
  
The prized structure came into his camera’s view. The weathervane spinning almost manically atop this glorious, ok detrited and dilapidated brick and mortar nuraghe. A structure that in its heyday could have been considered in some circles an old warehouse. 

Weathervane, he paused to contemplate, why in the world would there need to be a weathervane and for that matter how had the little guy found the strength to stay erect in the storm?  
  
He watched her gaze as it alighted to something above the door. Someone actually took the time to adorn this place, which judging from the moldering smell had not been infused with any sort of essential oils or even Lysol, with artwork? A rubiginous iron cut out of two stars, with, “are you kidding me” a lightening bolt. He raised his weary water logged eyes supernal.   
  
Water hastened itself through any available fenestra of the decaying entryway. The skookum man pushed her towards the elevator with an empty space were the call button should be. He was sure there was some sort of commentary on the whole day hidden in the mystery of the missing clicker. The exiguous loft of hers was their destination. Once safe behind the thick metal door of her abode, the adrenaline rapidly fled the denizens of Rushing Water Street.  
  
As had happened earlier, small hands wrapped themselves gently and with the utmost care around the man, this time around his bloody and broken middle section. He could tell she was apprehensive at this intimate connection. With an ataraxic hand he moved her face so he could watch her windows and she could hone in on his face.  
  
He was perspicacious of the fact the lady had no idea what to do next. Well, neither did he. What to do? She laid her head on his erratically beating heart. He gave it his all to encircle her with his arms; they just wouldn’t listen to his pleas. The black-haired man settled for resting his splintered open, skin hanging like a half pealed orange, soused in blood bearded chin atop her head. 

He felt her shift against him. Her heartbeat tried to harmonize with his. She raised her bruised swollen digits (he really had gripped too hard, how had he found the strength he mused, he didn’t want to be singly he answered himself) to swipe sweat soaked hair from his eyes while forcefully swallowing the bile forming in her mouth. 

Her words left nothing to open to debate. “You will live, we will heal you, we will make them pay.” 

He locked eyes with her, opening his mouth in response. His body however, did not get the memo. His enervated meat suit startled and then dropped without flourish and grace to the floor in a passed out heap of bones.


	2. If there’s one immutable truth about life… It’s often more cruel than it is fair

NEW A/N: Top of the Day Readers! This is a little FYI for those of you who are already in progress with this story. Per a suggestion from an amazing and wonderful mentor I have made some stylistic edits to make the story (and it’s multiple languages) easier to read! 

A/N: There is references in this chapter to:

The Poem/Book: The Divine Comedy, Dante Alighieri

“If there's one immutable truth about life... it's often more cruel than it is fair.” 

~ Ra’s al Ghul, The Fallen, Arrow

October 31, 2013, FBI White Collar, 8:15AM

The White Collar offices in Jacob K. Javits building at 26 Federal Plaza were in full swing. Neal took in the scene as he tossed his hat atop the bust of Socrates that kept him company through the lonely mind numbing hours of thumbing through pages upon pages upon pages of scintillating mortgage fraud cases. 

The first thing the raven haired man noticed as he took the time to make sure his lovely locks were all in place was that Special Agent in Charge Kyle Bancroft, Former Assistant Special Agent in Charge Reece Hughes and Peter were in a meeting. Wait, Hughes? This just became a more interesting Thursday morning. Which would undoubtedly involve at least one, if not two or three Special Agent in Charge Quantico taught finger points.

Neal kept his cerulean blue eyes low key locked on the tenseness of Peters crisp white shirt covered shoulders and the last chosen for the little league team slump of Bancroft’s all while participating in mindless banter with the office minions who pranced around him in their pre day rituals. 

From his vantage point astride the coffee (if you could even call it that) machine he could see that Peter had a single sheet of paper half crumpled in his left hand. The former baseball player’s right hand was fisted and the cords in his wrist were taught akin to a newly tuned piano. The upstate native looked anything if ready to knock out a tune on the ivory keys.

From what Neal could discern Peter had his fighting face on. Something the pugilist was sadly well acquainted with. Well, to be frank with himself, when didn’t Peter have his fighting face on now a days? Peter had yet to forgive him for saving him from the bowels of the Metropolitan Detention Center in Brooklyn. 

Peter hated him now. Maybe the DC born man thought he always had. Maybe, he lowered his head in what he knew to be shame, he deserved the hate. He knew he wasn’t a good person. He never really had been. Neal remembered the first time someone looked at him with hatred, he was five years old, he wanted to see his mom smile, to make her happy. 

Fiadh Caffrey (she had dropped the evil Bennett by then) had said she wanted something pretty her husband always use to bring her pretty things all the time. Budding artist Neal (or Danny as he was called then) painted his mom a new jar for her nightstand. He stayed up all night with his Mighty Mouse flashlight painting in his closet.

The venom that dripped on her tongue as she said “thank you Danny its so pretty just like you.” At least that’s what her outside words said, her inside words said “it’s ugly just like you.” He would never ever forget that punch to his gut. It hurt worse than any fist or leather or instrument of pain and terror ever brandished towards him and there had been many.

No, his chin almost sat on his chest he head had lowered so low, Peter wasn’t the first person he loved who came to hate him. He would be the last though. No more loving. What was the point? The man outfitted in his favorite Devore was done and finished with that now. He would tick marks on his wall at home till the last red mark showed he was free. What ever in the hell free meant.

Peter stood up and turned searching for his criminal informant, emphasis on the criminal. His stomach still churned at the thought of seeing Neal as anything other than a tool in his White Collar belt. He wondered if Neal would have turned out differently if someone just used a little more belt on him. No matter, he tossed the thought. Neal wasn’t even worth such energies of musing. His brown eyes found the object of his search. With one small finger bend he summoned his prey to the nest. 

Neal nodded, there was one of those Special Agent in Charge Quantico taught finger points. He laid his almost empty (he had not even remembered drinking the substandard FBI issued swill) mug on his methodically organized government gray desk. Nudged his plaster friend for what might be considered luck and headed up the stairs.

October 31, 2013, Neal’s Apartment 8:30PM

“So it was a trifurcate suit meeting?” Mozzie asked as he liberated his favorite corkscrew from the shelf above the sink. 

Neal’s perfected posture back was to him as he responded, “yeah Moz. It felt like being called to the principals office.” 

The Detroit transplant laughed without mirth, “you would know.” His young friend had told him of the many, many trips he made to the school runners room. Usually, they thought the youngster was cheating, no kid who was never seen studying could be that smart. He had to be a cheater, right?

Neal finally turned around from where he had been hanging his suit jacket and his dove colored tie on the wooden hanger and headed with haste towards the kitchen area. “Is that my Penfolds Bin?” The wine connoisseur inquired with his chin jutted out to showed his continued exasperation with his bantam friends appropriating of his vino collection.

“Yes, yes and if you must know,” he took a gracious nip “its nowhere near as good as the reviews say.” The bespeckled man took another sip of the red wine and continued as if Neal wasn’t about to rip the glass right out of his ring adorned hand, “mixing a cabernet sauvignon and a shiraz in theory is a partnersh…” The haunted shadows covering his friends face were enough to halt his statement where it stood.

With a dramatic flair only Mozzie could pull off he fit the other glass of wine into his friends outstretched hand. “So what did the triptych of FBI doom require of you this time?” Neal swallowed a substantial amount of the Australian blend as his feet lead the way onto the patio. Once the duo reached their balcony destination he knocked the glass down onto the metal table the crunch the base made indicated he may have to replace June’s stemware. He carded his hand through his jet black hair, his errant curl bouncing right back over his eye.

“I don’t know Moz, Peter still didn’t think he was ready for me to know. He hates me, more than my mom, more than Keller, more than m…” The just under six foot artist bounced like a pogo stick on steroids from foot to foot unable to house the nervous energy coursing through his body. “He just slammed the paper in his hand down and told me to read it. You are an informant so inform yourself.” 

Mozzie nodded thoughtfully as he sipped. He knew Neal thought Peter hated him, truly believed it in his shattered heart. Nothing the Detroit man thought could be farther from the truth. Peter loved Neal. He was just processing how his black and white world suddenly took on gray hues. “He is processing prison Neal, he isn’t like us. He is one of the polished pieces of silverware.” Polished pieces of silverware? Sometimes the bouncer wondered just where his friend came up with his turns of phrase.

Before Neal could put voice to his reply his IPhone heralded a text. “He is on his way Moz, he informed me… no instructed me” his white knuckled hand turned his black phone around so his follically challenged wine sipping friend could see.

“Neal, I’ll be there in 20. Be alone. NO EXCEPTIONS.” Mozzie finished with his best Suit impression.

Moz reaching a steadying hand out to his friends rolled sleeve arm. “You know all you have to do is say the word mon frere (my brother) and you, me and Lelana are in the skies.” 

Neal accepted the physical reassurance and dissuaded the verbal offer of travel to far off lands where people who hated him were not is residence. “I’m not going to run anymore Moz. As much as he might hate me, Peter needs me. And as till such time as he doesn’t.” The needed man let the sentence hang.

The shorter man ambled with purpose towards the sink to rinse his long since emptied glass. “Needs you to what, be his whipping boy?” 

Neal silenced him with a guttural rebuke, “wouldn’t be my first time in that position. I almost wish he would swing at me Moz, it would be preferable to the limboed Hell we are in now.”

Adjusting his pumpkin colored ascot the older man looked at the younger, “then swing at him first mon frere, (my brother,) swing at him first, make him fight you.” With that nugget of what Neal supposed was wisdom his friend vanished into the New York night, off to commune with witches and goblins or whatever people might be adorned as at his favorite watering whole by the docks.

October 31, 2013, Neal’s Apartment 9:15 PM

Neal was a tightly wound yo-yo sitting in the chair facing the door. His rolled cuffs dug into his arms were the tiny buttons were exposed to the skin. He barely registered the irritant. He felt like cement aggregating with paste he was solid and stuck. Blue eyes locked on the door knob. Door knobs were first patented in 1878 by African American inventor Osbourn Dorsey. Though at the time it was monikered a door closing device, not a knob. His brain was working over time to calm the freight train of emotions rattling down the tracks of his soul. 

Suddenly the door with knob he had been pondering the history of moved, the sound of the knocking echoed through his apartment, well June’s apartment. Try as he might, he could never make himself think of any place he hung his well stocked hat collection as his. Fiadh Caffrey’s words joined the echoing of the knocking, “you will always be a guest Neal, you would do well to remember that.”

Always a guest. 

The always a guest forced himself up out of the chair, absently noting the pearlized buttons disconnecting from his forearms. Without the trene sitting device to hold his weary bones Neal found his body was unsure of what to do with his weight. A louder more ominous knock sounded through the door as the white structure shook just a little in its hinges.

With a smile born out of years of practice Neal ameliorated his physiognomy and opened the barrier between he and the man on the other side. If only that simple action could provide way to opening more. “Peter, what brings you around tonight? I thought you might be with Elizabeth at her museum soiree. I know you detest the little chickens, but usually there are some ball park franks hidden on one or two passing trays.”

Peter narrowed his doe colored eyes as he took in his CI’s body. It was Neal’s practiced elegance that gave away just how nervous he was. The more Peter absorbed of the younger man countenance the more he acknowledged it was not nerves. It was fear. Stone Cold fear. Of him. Neal was afraid of him. Neal who could leap tall buildings in a single bound, fence with thieves and dance with devils was afraid of Peter Tobias Burke. 

‘Once more you tread the razor’s edge.’ Peter wondered if Neal knew the words his table bust had written. Of course he did. Neal was the smartest man he knew. If only Neal could somehow see or he could share how nervous and scared he was. Life seemed so different then. Before.

“Neal. We. Need. To. Talk.” The older man enunciated each word with labored breath. He fought to soften his cadence as he sought out those ocean blue eyes. The New York native often thought it was he who offered the life preserver to Neal, he was adrift in the sea of life. Peter was forged of iron, a steady anchor. The fifty year old knew now it the young man whose actual age he didn’t even know who offered him the life preserver.

November 1, 2013, Neal’s Apartment 3:01AM

Neal hadn’t strayed from the balcony chair he sought refuge in, well collapsed into really after the Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the New York Federal Bureau of Investigations White Collar Division had taken leave. Irascible winds bayed at the nightlight in the sky wailing their indefatigable cries of agony. Black hair rustled like leaves he spied at the corner before he entered the house at 351 Riverside Drive on the Upper West side. The tempest air whispered angry words through his untucked shirt. The wind nipped at the corners of his opened unfocused lenses, his marrow neigh on frozen thanks to the steep drop in temperature and yet the he couldn’t make himself move even an inch.

“You can either be a con or a man. You can’t be both.” Neal thought back to what prefaced those words, “Neal, if you ever decide to grow up, you should realize one thing.” The District of Columbia native closed his often talked about blue eyes and let the scream trapped in his enervated soul unleash itself unto the stormy night.

Neal grew up the day after he had given his mom that beautiful painted jar. He learned you have to take care of yourself, no one would ever do it for you. She sure hadn’t. Even Ellen hadn’t not really. She gave him parcels of affection like a handler gave a dog. No even a handler showed a dog more affection. Sometimes even Ellen forgot to feed him. His lids eased open against the terror of the storm. “Grow up.” He was never a kid after that day. 

What was it Billy S said, ‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances’ and one man in his time plays many parts.’ He had played many parts. And it would appear he was set to play many more.

November 1, 2013, Neal’s Apartment 6:45AM

The rain beat a heavy torrent at the man of many parts still locked in the metal coffin on the balcony. The barefoot sitter had lost all feeling some time ago. Well, that wasn’t true, he had lost all physical feeling. If only his heart would catch on to the way of it all.

“NEAL!!” The namesake snapped his eyes open at the beseeching bellow, the underscored worry heavy in the following NEAL. Mozzie grabbed his mon frere (brother) by the arms, “Neal.” The older mans ascot was different Neal pondered why, usually Mozzie had his non patterned patterns and would wear the orange for three days in a row every third week. Hadn’t yesterday only been day two?

“Oh mon frere (my brother) what am I to do with you?” Moz helped the scourged man out of the chair, catching him when his legs almost gave way. 

“I need to shower Moz, I can’t be late.” The chair sitter ignored the unvoiced question in his friends overly kind extremely understanding, too understanding eyes. He couldn’t have this conversation now he just wasn’t ready. The conversation would be long and detailed and require much wine. 

“Come round tonight?” Neal proffered invite for what he knew was going to be an arduous though needed Friday night tete a tete, “I have a hidden Torbreck to try.” 

“Its adorable that you still think its hidden. I will return upon the break of night.” Blue eyes locked with blue eyes, “then we speak of why you were attempting to become another gargoyle atop this castle.” 

November 1, 2013, White Collar Offices 8:00AM

“You ever have moments where there is a soundtrack just strumming in your head?” Neal questioned a tired looking Diana. 

She was not in the mood. “Caffrey what are you talking about?” 

He took in the new moms caved in shoulders, the slightly milk stained mis-buttoned shirt and wondered why she was even at the White Collar office in the first place. Shouldn’t she be home with baby Theo? “Have you ever been doing something and a song pops into your head? One that just fits the moment.” 

The female agents pony tail swished against the red top she just realized was a button out of place. And was that milk on the outside of her shirt? “Yeah I suppose. I can’t go down the drive to my parents without thinking of the song itsy bitsy spider.”

Neal turned his head at such an un Diana like response. He expected Chopin and maybe even Yesterday. But a nursery ditty about an anaconda. Nope, just didn’t seem like tough as nails Diana Berrigan. The nursing mama didn’t even register he was asking elucidation for such an odd song choice. 

“Why? What is your soundtrack to this moment?” The agent asked.

“Java Jive by the Ink Spots” the man in the blue pin striped suit answered with his trademark grin. 

Diana tossed her head back and laughed. It was no secret they all loved coffee. Though no one other than Peter Burke would ever say they loved the coffee at the FBI offices, in fact even loved might be too strong a word for Peter on the subject.

“What are you doing here Diana? Shouldn’t you be home with your recently arrived offspring?” Neal inquired as to why his team mate (no not team mate, they weren’t a team anymore, just co worker now, if she could even be called that) was not at home on her approved maternity leave. 

“Just in to sign some insurance paperwork.” The lady responded even as her long legs started the short trek towards the elevators, “bye Caffrey.” 

“My best to Theo!” He finished off the coversation as she disappeared behind the doors of the traveling room.

As promised by his late night visitor there was a brown envelope on his desk. Neal eased his battered body down into his FBI issued chair, sat at his FBI issued desk and began reading as he sipped at his FBI issued coffee. What in the world was he supposed to do with the information staring at him? Almost taunting him. Several ideas or schemes he supposed flitted through his mind at rapid pace. 

Peter tried to control his rapid breathing and erratic heartbeat in the elevator at the Jacob K. Javits building, being in small confined spaces still made him sweat in the small of his back. His ears were starting to ring with bells only he could hear. His palms much to his chagrin and discomfort folded into claws. Prison had changed him. He wanted to cowboy up. He didn’t want to admit he may be suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. 

How had Neal handled the years he spent Sing Sing Correctional and not become claustrophobic or even catatonic? How did he not suffer from debilitating side effects of incarceration? Even being in his bathroom at home made him want to claw his throat for air. The simple answer is he was Neal and even if he did suffer from side effects he would just hide behind that stupid shield of a grin. Not for the first time the fifty year old wondered how many people tried to swipe that off his face.

The Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the New York White Collar division reigned in his errant thoughts of which correction facility stay brought on more torture and anguish . What he needed to instead focus on was what was to come. “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate.” (Abandon hope all ye who enter here) Peter straightened his tie, loosening it just a hair from his neck.

The ding heralded the arrival of the his boss, gone were the days he thought of him as a friend or surrogate brother (not that he would ever tell Peter that.) Neal focused harder on the paper in front of him, the words still spun this way and that. Soon a shadow covered them, he looked up from under his bruised lids. “My office now.” The command was absolute and left no margin for discussion. The younger man took in the tie loosened just enough. Peter did that a fair amount now these days.

Like a puppy snapped by a newspaper he followed his owners lead. That is how he had to think of Peter, as his owner until such time as he was traded in for a new model. Or just returned to the lot like the lemon he was.

Once upon a time Neal would have just slide into the seat across from Peters way to file stacked desk. Now he stood at attention waiting as Peter walked around and gave Neal a what for. “Did you read it?” The older man barked with absolute authority as he de-sleeved himself of his brown suit jacket and hung it on the back of his new ASAC approved chair. 

“Yes. I read it.” The younger man responded with unmitigated deference.

Something, check that, many somethings weren’t right. Peter honed in on the con man’s hands. They were often indicators of what his CI was feeling. Were they tapped against each other or some object in a steady staccato they would eventually drive the listener mad, were they twirling a pencil or pen or brush, were they tossing that ever growing rubber band ball in the air? No, they were eerily still, utterly without movement, simply clasped over each other. ‘Oh hell,’ Peter could see the faint hints of bruising on the parts of Neal’s palms that were visible to his all to keen brown eyes.

Peter moved his assessment supernal to the other man’s face, the bruising under those soulful eyes complemented the ones on his hands, only with more pronunciation and gusto. “Dammit Caffrey, what did you do last night?” 

Blue eyes slowly looked up from the spot he had been inspecting on the floor. The agent half hoped Neal would flinch or shutter or something. This calm acceptance of abuse facade was frightening. Even if he rebuked himself he was the abuser. “Do? Nothing Agent Burke, I stayed right where you left me last night. Pull up my tracking data if you don’t believe me.” 

The FBI agent pulled up the tracking data more so because of the words ‘right where you left me.’ Even thought he tried to batten down his hatches his body still flickered like a shorting light when Neal called him Agent Burke. Upon reviewing the Marshals report he acknowledged that Neal provided him irrefutable fact he had in fact not moved from where he was as the up state native took his leave.

It had stormed last night like Heaven tried to open a portal to Hell. It was storming presently. Gail force winds playing golf with hail could be heard through the glass windows at his back. Peter just couldn’t make himself care. If he cared he couldn’t accomplish the task before them. He had to think of Neal only as the trash who left him to rot in jail. Then as the garbage that took him out the only way he knew how, by breaking the law. Again. “Get out of my sight, you make me sick.” 

Neal didn’t even flinch as the verbal newspaper landed on him again. The bruised man found he was getting better at absorbing the hits. It had been a while since he doubled as a punching bag, still you fall back into a pattern of just accpetting the abuse you know you have earned.

He had crossed Peters immutable line of ethics and morals when he recorded his sperm donors voicemail. The lover of baseball, beer and balcony banter only really saw the world in black and white, there was no shade of gray he would be comfortable with. Neal knew as he watched the equipment with its lines and squiggles that in doing what he was doing he was severing the bond they had forged.

Forged bonds, what brought them together in the first place. Simpler times. He flashed on the memory of being told he could be a con or a man. He wasn’t either. He shook his head, he was player and he needed to get back to his stage.

A/N: Just in Case…

French to English Translations Are As Follows:

Mon frère = My brother

Italian to English Translations Are As Follows:

Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate = Abandon hope all ye who enter here


	3. For the world is Hell

NEW A/N: Top of the Day Readers! This is a little FYI for those of you who are already in progress with this story. Per a suggestion from an amazing and wonderful mentor I have made some stylistic edits to make the story (and it’s multiple languages) easier to read! 

A/N: There aren’t enough words in my lexicon to properly convey my thanks to Moni Hasnone for my first ever review. I may have (read did) done a happy dance 

“For the world is Hell, and men are on the one hand the tormented souls and on the other the devils in it.”   
~ Arthur Schopenhauer

November 1, 2013 10:30AM FBI Evidence Storage (Cold Case Counter)

“Get out of my sight, you make me sick.” Peter had stated those eviscerating words with such unfettered calm. It was as if he were discussing the weather on a summer’s day, not leveling a knock out punch to Neal’s hope that one day they might surmount this presently unclimbable mountain. 

Blue eyes stared unseeing at the damaged and fissured elevator wall in front of him. The fifty year old had no idea how many times a young Danny heard that phrase through out his tenure in St. Louis. At some point those words lost their ability to bring an outward reaction. 

Outside reactions had consequences far greater than the inward consequences Danny leveled at himself. The concomitant of flinching in front of Fiadh was a few backhands to the face or on her not so good days stronger physical repercussions that brought about his not being able to be vertical for an undetermined amount of time.

Inward Danny would be made to endure yet again the tabescent trauma of rejection, over and over again. The flickering light in the elevator glinted off a particularly large gash near the call button; Neal traced it with his fingers. He had an outward consequence scar on his hip not unlike that gash. Yes he thought as he massaged the scar on the wall he was all to well acquainted with the phrase “get out of my sight, you make me sick.” 

Neal breathed in deep through his nose and out through his mouth. He was breathing himself into the part he needed to play. The blue eyed man straightened his already meticulously straight tie, eyed his mother of pearl clover tiepin to make sure it was at the geographical center of the silk neck piece, tugged his shirt to make sure it was even with his jacket. Then quick ran through what he needed to say like actors read sides just before a scene.

The ancient FBI freight elevator with all its shimmy to the left and shake to the right finally tintinabulated the felons arrival at the basement. The gates of Hell are open night and day. Smooth the descent, (apparently they had not had occasion to ride this particular elevator) and easy is the way. But to return, and view the cheerful skies, in this the task and mighty labor lies. 

While Mr. Alighieri had expatiated on a fair bit about all the circles of hell. It was Virgil whose words on putting in the time that was steadfast in his heart. Still Neal wondered where the cold case counter of evidence storage or the outer morgue as it had sometimes (affectionately) been referred to as fit into Dante’s rings of fire.

Putting on his best smile the actor stepped up to stage or old wooden counter circa 1953. Neal sized up his prey, he felt underscored guilty assuming she was an easy mark. The lady behind the barrier was thick, in a frumpy old fisherman’s white cable knit cardigan sweater, the cold weather covering slightly obscured a muted black Bohemian blouse and sturdy boring black pants. She had what had to be the world’s most severe schoolmarm bun and spectacles that might outweigh Mozzie’s. 

Please he prayed quietly to anyone listening; please don’t let her be illiberal. Please let Schoolmarm be of benevolent character. “How may I help you sir?” 

The recently assessed attendant asked the White Collar CI. “Sir” searched for her name so he could establish rapport but her badge was at her hip, which was covered by that optically offensive wool sweater. Respect would have to do for now, “good morning ma’am, I’m Neal Caffrey with White Collar on the 51st.” 

“Mr. Caffrey.” (So this was the famed Neal Caffrey.) Grudgingly she had to admit he lived up to the odes of beauty the ladies (and some of the men) had waxed on about his person. Though the darkened circles under his luminescent eyes deducted points from the final score. If he could decide her in one long look she deduced she could match his poorly executed idea.

Schoolmarm ran her doe colored eyes over the infamous man across the counter. Impeccably tailored suit somewhere between obsidian and indigo or a hybrid of what happens when the twains meet, single breasted, double button, double pocket, a muted stormy blue tie (clearly he was trying to compliment the weather outside,) an antique tiepin of a clover (maybe he was hoping for luck) and a crisp white shirt. Neal Caffrey was anything but sartorially challenged.

“How may I be of service to you today?” The ladies voice was heavy as if she was just through the backside of a cold. Neal turned up the mega watt on his stage smile. The lugubrious cast of his eyes didn’t lend at all to upturn of his lips. This was a man very adept at embosking his pain with showmanship. She raised an eyebrow aphonicaly saying ‘simmer down lobster you aren’t in Maine.’ Then followed up the eyebrow raise with a gentle finger tap hoping to encourage him to find a point in a timely fashion.

Blue eyes did a seconded over of the brown eyed girl across from him. The as of yet unnamed woman was not about his charm. Interesting usually woman of her stature appreciated his charisma and attention they readily bowed to his duende. Sans Moniker did not look ready to disburden him of his task anytime soon. Unfortunately for both of them her not being swayed to his needs was not something he could readily afford. Neal took a mini breath and aggregated his approach.

The DC born man handed over the form that had been tightly griped in his left hand. Brown eyes acknowledged the crease marks his fingers had left as her smaller right mit reached to accept the official request. As she pulled the paper back her sweater road up her arm just the barest hint. In the blink of an eye Neal saw ink. He wouldn’t have pegged Ms. Bland as they Come as someone who had a tattoo. The polyglot was certain it was Arabic; he committed what he saw to memory so as to translate at a later time.

The monochromatically attired woman was quick to catch his espial of her wrist art. “Be at peace, not in pieces.” Something she imagined Mr. Caffrey had great need of, being at peace. Life had a way of leaving you in pieces. Her lips dipped at the memory of the fault line that lay dormant under the script.

Her horse voice interrupted his memory storing. 

“Excuse me?” Neal asked the five foot five (from his expert guestamations) lady in waiting. Fingers set about typing the official request information into her antiquated FBI computer. 

Allowing him a moment of collection and reflection her ravishing rose colored (that’s what the bottle said) nails clicked on she ingeminated the information, “Be at peace, not in pieces.” Neal assessed this FBI gnome with a set of keener eyes. 

He was the disjecta membra of a kaleidoscope. The man wondered what the definition of peace was. Neal looked it up once; Webster’s described it as 1. Freedom from disturbance; tranquility or 2. A state or period in which there is no war or a war has ended. He had lived with turbulence in his life so long that peace was just a word in the pages of a dictionary.

“I’m sorry if I was too forward with my visual inspection of your wrist. I saw lines and well, I am an artist at heart. I respect and appreciate art in all its forms.” 

A diminutive laugh escaped her pinked lips, “all its forms Mr. Caffrey? Even that tissue exhibit at the coffee shop everyone’s all a twitter about?”

“I can appreciate the social commentary on wanting to clean the soul and olfactory sense.” Neal responded thinking back to the exhibit. Pop art was a nuanced market, that particular showing hadn’t done much for him. Still, it was an interesting idea designed to pull in young twenty something’s who wanted to feel elitist with a compliment of esoteric. 

The bun owner stopped typing for a second to look him straight in the eye, “and here I thought it was all about blowing.”

“Blowing…” His voice trailed off as he realized she was joshing him. His following incandescent smile was authentic, not the facade he so often lived behind. The grin returned to him was as lucent as it was veridical. In fact, there might have even been the barest hint of clonus and ignescence of pantagruelism in her brown eyes.

Key clicking resumed as she informed him about their forthcoming descending adventure, “It would seem we are on a bit of a treasure hunt Mr. Caffrey. We most follow the winding road this way and that, stopping to grab a ride on the Back Mess Express.” This time it was Neal who raised his eyebrows towards the ceiling. Back Mess Express sounded sinister. “The treasure you seek is another two floors down into the governmental abyss and in a little slice of Heaven, we here at the morgue refer to as, the sewer.” 

“The sewer? We are in the basement, how much lower can you go?” Neal questioned a little taken back that he didn’t know everything there was to know about the Jacob K. Javits building at 26 Federal Plaza. Her pink lips rose again at his unintended double entendre. 

Her good-natured laugh as she responded, “depends of if I have stretched first” brought forth a hearty chuckle.

And a “morning ablutions are the most important part of your day” in rejoinder.

The brown haired girl stepped around the counter, and then around Neal and then with strength he was surprised she was in possession of under her muted hued ensemble pulled the security cage doors closed. Absently he wondered what other things were hidden under her armor of wool. Not in a concupiscence way, she was far from his estrus checklist. 

The click of the lock startled him out of sheep covered musings and made his heart palpitate akin to the andantino quasi allegretto in Scheherazade. Being locked behind bars for his own 1,001 nights was something that he would not forget hence the heart rate increase in time with the snare drums of the Nikolai Rimsky Korsakov symphony. The prospect of returning to that trapped solitude hung over his coal colored head like a famed sword.

Neal spied her badge as her hips moved passed him in an effort to be the leader in the follow the leader game. The dangling tag was still obscured by the damned cable knit sweater. His cerulean eyes continued their visual inspection of her person. This chunky petite records maven was rocking vintage Doc Martens with rose-colored laces. She was potpourri full of oddities.

Her 900 number voice interpolated his thoughts. “It’s driving you bananas and peanut butter you can’t read my badge. The pickpocket in you desires to liberate it right off me, yet you don’t want me to sense the movement of my sweater.” 

She was quick like a bunny under the moon on the forest floor this solider in the Army of FBI files. “Yes ma’am.” He responded with just enough intonal emphasis on ma’am it was known he rather it be her actual name.

“What do you suppose it is?” She questioned him with a neigh on maniacal glint in her brown eyes. 

The just under six-foot pickpocket fell in step behind her as they head towards ‘the sewer.’ Neal hoped in his heart was a nome de plum for an area not a real waste by product piping system. This was among his favorite Devore’s. What if Jimmy at House of Cleaners couldn’t live up to his slogan, ‘no smell we can’t send back to hell?’

“What do I suppose what is?” Neal paused for a breath. “The Arch of the FBI-venant? It is what I need to complete the task as provided to me by my Overseer.” Her ears heard the undercurrent of Weltschmerz in his voice. 

“‘The sewer?’ I must say ma’am I am really hoping the sewer is just a term of endearment to make it sound ominous rather than be ominous.” Her shitkicker steps slowed to a halt as she turned her freckled profile to meet his marbled alabaster one, “What do I suppose your moniker is? Persephone, maybe?” His blue eyes twinkled like the moon at twilight. 

“Well I guess I should be happy you didn’t say Cerberus.” Her response was to toss her head back in cachinnation. Neal’s eagle eyes honed in on the thin lined healed scar on her esophagus. The governmental treasure-hunting guide continued on as she motioned for him to turn the almost hidden corner to her right.

“You are quite the inveigler Mr. Caffrey. Has this wondrous skill ever failed you in your conquests?” The lady asked with no small amount of mirth dancing across her physiognomy. 

His grin indicated this would be one of the few times in which his lurering had not produced the desired result. “Does now count?” Neal questioned as his face belayed the fact he was performing.

The suspiration that escaped her was a blended mixture of clemency for the poor and cognitive empathy, “how emotionally ensanguinating it must be to be you at times.” Her lexicon was as vast as Mozzie’s use of quotes. 

“Maybe all the time now.” The pearlized tiepin wearer responded before he realized he voiced his inside thoughts to the outside. Quickly he reschooled his features into the mask of the con. Mercifully Ms. No Name let his slip of the tongue move on into the ether.

The bun wearer tilted her head ever so slightly to the right. This was a man who had lost all Credendum in that which he held dear. Something he hid under his well-tailored suits, his sizing sprayed shirts and his armored tie. Such loss of faith was hard to recover and rebuild. She wondered if it had been Agent Burke’s incarceration. (Even that water cooler talk made it down here to the morgue.)

While the lady in muted tones didn’t offer an auditory reply she did extend an olive branch of sorts. Her square hands toped with those rose nails relocated her sweater from over her badge to behind it. The downward-headed duo alighted into an elevator dubbed the Back Mess Express. The box about to trap them looked as if Cyclopes monks at the Monastery of Doom had carved it. There must be an FBI ordnance by the Secret Society of the Elevator that says the cars must be dingy, depressing and derited.

Having been a daily passenger on the BME her cheeks flushed with merriment as the famed Neal Caffrey thief extraordinaire braced his muscular arms (yes she checked) on the sides as the antiquated conveyance rapidly descended a few feet before settling into a turtles crawl. “You get used to it,” the lady offered as if sharing another ordnance by the Secret Society of the Elevator. 

Neal cautiously joined in the raillery, “You get used to this?” 

A weathered and well-loved Doc Marten rapped his right ankle, “didn’t you get used to this?” The work released felons face registered the direct Battleship hit, his expression of arrant ignominy was transient yet axiomatic before the mask reanimated. Her heart hurt as she saw her attempt at relaxing him instead aggrieved him. She needed to help him regain his composure. He was all about his facade.

“Grace.” She looked at him her eyes filled with a respect not offered him in a long time if ever really. “Though you wouldn’t know I have any at the moment,” her thick black glasses slipped slightly on her long sense healed broken nose as she told him her sobriquet. 

“Un-winged and naked, sorrow surrenders its crown to a throne called grace.” The avid reader re-laid a quote from a poem he read by Aberjhani. The munifence of her smile illustrated she did have the dint to heal sorrow. “Grace.” He paused with intent to wow. “That is not what it says on the badge. It says Grainne.” 

The unconsciously offered perfect Gaelic pronunciation gave way to her intellection as to whether he was a native speaker of the language or just extremely well self taught. Caffrey was a very old Irish name. Grannie wondered if his family was descendant of Travelers. That would inform so very much about the man before her.

Neal watched as thoughts passed expeditiously across her freckled face until the almost to late auditory warning of “watch out Mr. Caffrey” was offered. The old cart slammed damn like the eight ball hit the pocket. The man thought his T3 and T4 might have merged into one with the amount of force the elevators full stop brought about. 

This woman had to be locked in this metal box every day? That informed as to why the Doc Martens, they were shock absorbers. “I supposed you get used to that too?” Neal questioned at the irpe his body gave as his balls dropped back into place. 

November 1, June’s Rooftop Apartment (Previously refereed to as Neal’s Apartment) 7:00PM

“Ok mon frère.” (my brother) Mozzie stopped to sip the previously highlighted Torbreck, it was a vast improvement of the preceding nights hybrid red offering. “You were confined in not one, not two, but three FBI elevators, then you were trapped in a sewer with an FBI gnome?” A hearty chuckle escaped the Detroit mans chaffed lips. 

“The road may be rough, the journey maybe tough and the experience may be bitter, but they are stepping stones to our future thrones.” The well read near balding man offered in way of solace. Neal took a healthy sip of the Australian red wine swirling in the glass before him. 

“Is that another one of your robotic poets quotes?” Mozzie had been on a poet kick as of late, which meant Neal had been too as his ascot-wearing friend left the books about the rooftop apartment. 

“Bamigboye Olurtimi,” the bantam man confirmed. 

Blue eyes gazed outside the storm that had marred most of the day settled into abyss. The night was compliment to The Saint-Cloud park at night by Frantisek Kupka, the very picture of calm. A perdu commentary on his day at large he supposed.

“Moz,” Neal shook his head to clear his unruly curl out of his eye. “The gnome, Grace, wasn’t all that bad. She was a wonderful blend of dazzling repartee, enhanced culinary skills (really that ham salad sandwich made him almost understand Pe... Agent Burke’s affinity for deviled ham, almost) and research skills that would make even you proud.”

“Alright so she was a helpful gnome.” Moz continued onto the questions he really wanted the answers to. “What about the Suit? Aside from your early morning tete a tete did he offer any additional agitprop?” The man noticed his shoelace was untied, and then sat to re bunny up the hole on his Chucks. 

Neal’s answer was filled with unwanted imagery, “he gave me a side ways glare, then walked out at 5:01PM. You’d think Elizabeth was waiting for him with cold beers and nothing on the way he flew out of there.” 

Mozzie chuckled, “maybe she was.” Suit and Mrs. Suit having sex, not something he needed to know anything about. 

“No.” Neal absently mindlessly continued, “She is spearheading a fundraising party at the Channing Museum.” 

“Oh right. Wasn’t that the account you helped her land a few years back?” Neal took a gulp sized swallow of his wine; it stung to think of Elizabeth and that conversation right before Kate’s inferno dance. If he had only listened to understand instead of respond that day oh how his world might look different now.

“You know it is Moz.” 

Dark blue eyes locked on light blue, “we haven’t met since the Suit was liberated from the clink.” 

Neal nodded, “you don’t have to give up your special friend on my account.” He would never dream of keeping Moz from Elizabeth. For some strange reason known only by the universe Elizabeth not only liked but also enjoyed her Mozzie visits.

“Least you think it was a chivalry based decision, it wasn’t me who initiated the radio silence. It was Mrs. Suit. I think her husband’s incarceration was just too much for her to process in the pool of gray. They are good, we are not,” Mozzie finished his thought as he finished his first glass of the night.

“I’m sorry Moz. I am. It is because of me...” Neal started attempting to assuage the removal of Elizabeth from his rather singly friend. It wasn’t just Pe- Agent Burke he lost when he made that decision, it was Elizabeth too and Diana and Jones to a lesser degree. ‘Get out of my sight, you make me sick.’ The words worked on a loop in his head.

With an upturned finger Moz silenced Neal’s unneeded and wanted apology. “Nothing we do will ever be understood; we will be feared and kept well away from, Henry Rollins.” The sage man sipped at his second of many glasses. 

The not so straitlaced duo of brains, wit and knowhow were good enough to help in times of crisis, but they shunned for the way they did it. You would think the married Suits wanted the Suit back in an orange jumpsuit the way Neal and Moz were repudiated.

“So Mon Frere (my brother) are you going to tell me what transpired between you and the Suit that had you sitting in the center of storm with all its son et lumiere (sound and light or thunder and lightening) last night? ALL night I might add.” The all night sitter swallowed, he had to be very careful in how he answered the question. Neal was cognizant of the fact his friend new all his tells. He was too tired to hide them. Instead he needed to redirect the conclusions Moz would come to.

“I’m tired Moz. To quote the gnome I am emotionally insanguinated.” 

The be speckled man raised his eyebrows towards the ceiling, “gnome knows some big words.” Neal nodded in agreement to the assessment that she did.

“You know I need time to process, formulate plans and contingencies. Agent Burke offered me a new deal of sorts.” Escaping and evading that is what the emotionally insanguinated felon was doing at the moment. 

Pale blue eyes assessed him with a little too much clarity for his comfort. “A new deal? What does the Suit want you back in Sing Sing to serve out your sentence? Mother of Pearl Neal, thanks to your suit work you would be in Solitary till the last red x.” 

“I would do it Moz, if that is what he wanted. I would hate the smallness of my box. But I would do it. Maybe I even deserve it. You well know the crimes I have committed.” He knew well most of the crimes Neal had committed, there were a few in his violent past that he never shared with anyone, not even his friend, who would have understood and never ever judged him for the choices he had to make. 

Neal reached for the bottle realizing the emptiness of nervous system calming tonic in his stemware. 

“I know Neal. I know you would you would walk yourself all the way to Ossining tonight if that is what the Suit asked. For the record mon frère…” (my brother) The older man didn’t ever lend voice to it, but he did think of Neal as his mon frère, (brother) it wasn’t just a turn of phrase. “I would hate it too. As your lawyer I would want to do everything to get you out.” Neal went to interject. Moz continued over him, “as your friend I would respect your sword falling decision.” 

“No he wants me to work on cold cases in the basement for a wh-” Suddenly the chair opposite him was moved out from the table the soniferous scraps of the legs on the floor made the DC natives ears itch.

“The Suit wants to banish you to what did you call it ‘the sewer?’ 

The sewer thankfully was in fact a nome de guerre it was rather peaceful in the subterranean matrix of FBI storage rooms.Neal went to continue his explanation while Moz paced in front of the sink, his rings knocked against the glass in his hand and the parrot on his shirt looked constantly in flight. “Maybe it is better this way, I’m still on work release, I can come back here every night, and I am not in a cell in Sing Sing.” 

The felon rubbed his cheek stubble was beginning to grace his face. “ And Agent Burke and I don’t have to see each other as often. He will no longer look at me as if I am fons et origo mali. I don’t have to feel as if I am the subject of a Munch portrait.” 

Mozzie halted his legwork; the Suit was no longer Peter twice now he had been referred to as Agent Burke. The Dentist of Detroit really felt the urge to punch the suit or better yet send hundreds upon hundreds of ladies entertainment magazines and knitting catalogs to his house. “If you spend your time hoping someone will suffer the consequences for what they did to your heart, then you’re allowing them to hurt you a second time in your mind, Shannon L. Alder.” It was by no means solace to Neal’s heart, but he smiled with wet eyes at the Adler words.

The Converse traversing of the floor continued, as did the elenchus. “So, no more 51st? You are to relocate down to Dante’s tenth circle address, a carrel next to the garden statuary? Are you to dress in overly abundant wool with grunge footwear? Neal you can’t do grunge.” 

Before the former Bennett could interject that he didn’t even own boots of that nature Mozzie scooted back to the table, placed his wine down then gripped his jewelry adorned fingers on the chair back, “no more field work? He just wants to lock you in the building so he can watch the blinking cursor of your anklet?” 

“Enough with the catechizing Agent Haversham.” The younger man supplicated to his friend. Moz took in his mon frere’s (brother’s) face, the bruising under his eyes was all the more pronounced, his gaze wondered down to the artists hands, the discoloration had increased to include eggplant hues. The fingers held June’s favorite Waterford glass were white with pressure. Neal’s knees were folded in and down, a sure sign he was trying to protect himself from more opprobrium. Neal ran his other through his hair he was pavid of continuing the conversation. 

Enough. He would provide his friend an ephemeral reprieve and be complaisant for THIS evening. 

“Whatever happens, happens such as you are either formed by nature able to bear it, or not able to bear it. If such as you are by nature formed able to bear, bear it and fret not: but if such as you are not naturally able to bear, don’t fret; for when it consumed you, itself will perish. Remember, however, you are by nature formed able to bear whatever it is in the power of your own opinion to make supportable or tolerable, according as you conceive it advantageous, or your duty, to do so, Marcus Aurelius.” 

A/N: Just in Case…

French to English Translations Are As Follows:

Mon frère = My brother

Son et lumière = Sound and light or thunder and lightening


	4. Speak when you are angry and you will make the best speech you will ever regret

NEW A/N: Top of the Day Readers! This is a little FYI for those of you who are already in progress with this story. Per a suggestion from an amazing and wonderful mentor I have made some stylistic edits to make the story (and it’s multiple languages) easier to read! 

“Speak when you are angry and you will make the best speech you will ever regret.”   
~ Ambrose Bierce

November 8, 2013, FBI White Collar, 6:30AM

It had been a week since he had chance to grace his desk on the 51stst floor. Neal said a quick hello to Socrates, checked his empty inbox added copies of his weekly reports to his outbox. The work released felon had to come in early so as not to chary at the thought of disturbing White Collar Assistant Special Agent in Charge Burke. He took the words ‘get out of my sight you make me sick’ to heart. So he stayed out of his sight.

The lithe on his feet thief was really rather adept at not being seen, especially when he put schema to action. This past week, the former Bennett was sedulous at his métier of not being in the view master of Agent Burke. Which meant interspersing entrance and exit times so as not to coincide with that of the upstate native. 

Still weekly reports had to be completed. What would the wheel of bureaucracy be without the murder of a few corpses of trees? The FBI ran on paperwork, even Neal was not immune to the turning in of required documents. Including an enumerated timeline of his week spent within the morgue. His time must be strictly accounted for. Even if Agent Burke didn’t lay his brown eyes on blue he still needed to know exactly what they spent their time looking at.

Monday, November 4, 2013

8:00AM Checked in with Records Clerk G. Carney  
8:05AM - 10:45AM Worked on Newgrange File 180-NY-1338  
10:45AM - 10:55AM Bathroom break, coffee refill  
10:55AM - 1:00PM Worked on Newgrange File 180-NY-1338  
1:00PM-1:10PM Bathroom break, coffee refill  
1:10PM-5:00PM Worked on Newgrange File 180-NY-1338

All of Neal’s days were meticulously itemized in the same manner. All research material used including files names and numbers had been referenced, highlighted and collated. The report writer had proffered suggestions and opined possible conclusions to the Newgrange Case. Copies of his tracking data (not that Neal doubted for one second that Agent Burke didn’t have his data running in the background on his computer screen at all times) had been provided to substantiate and verify the timeline. Ever one for the exiguous details, Neal even included a statement made by the schoolmarm as to authenticate with a respected eyewitness account.

Neal smiled a very un-stage like smile at the thought of the schoolmarm. When he arrived off the freight elevator that smelled strangely of onions and maybe garlic with oregano yesterday there was a neatly printed note on the cage doors, “Mr. Caffrey, please ring the bell!” ‘Mr. Caffrey’ followed the instructions, seconds later schoolmarm and her trusty Doc Martens made the scene.

With an ease that still impressed him she alighted the metal barrier with one hand. Her grin reached from one ear to the next. The man in the three-piece dove color suit went to follow her down the hallway to the BME elevator (he really should take to wearing a jockstrap while riding it) and was taken a back when she instead headed behind her counter to a hallway just off the side. With a wave of her left hand she requested him to follow. 

It was touch and go for a second as he took in the area before him, ultimately his mask stayed in place. The tattooed lady had made him an office. Granted it had been a musty dusty file room in its heyday. That day however, it had become the office of one N. Caffrey. At least that is what it said on the black background and gold lettered nameplate she made him. There was an antiquated wooden desk (circa 1953 just like the front counter,) with thick drawers on either side. 

On the left side of the back wall were two small wooden matching to the desk filing cabinets. The records holder on the left had an inbox on it and the one on the right an outbox (again matching the desk.) Schoolmarm had mounted a white board on one wall with a little mason jar filled with pens and a chamois cleaning cloth folded into a flower. The other wall sported a corkboard again with a little mason jar this one containing bronzed pushpins.

Ms. Thought of Everything had also thought to provide him with his very own copy machine, scanner, a microfiche reader, personal printer and computer. As well as, a long past superannuated typewriter, the latest and greatest label maker and an XLR digital Nikon camera. 

On the ride side of the back wall was a dorm-sized fridge with a red coffee maker atop it. There was a small of course matching to the other wooden pieces sundries table with three hat adorned (Ms. Carney was a character) red ceramic jars. The hand written labels read COFFEE, SUGAR, SURPRISE. Surprise? This was all a surprise. 

On the wall by the door a vintage wooden not quite matching but certainly complimenting coat rack with a place for his umbrella and hat of the day. His personal interior decorator also thought to include aspects of foliage in the offerings; a silk salix babylonica in rusted color pot and a bonsai tree next to the fedora’d COFFEE, SUGAR and SURPRISE containers. 

There was also quite suspiciously a rock sitting in the center of his desk. A rock? Maybe it was an impressive in its austere simplicity paperweight? The recently adoptive parent of the single scree would have to interpellate that at later time.

For his artistic needs, there was a wooden easel along the left wall with a full compliment of paper and matching to the other two mason jar with a variety of scribing implements to include sharpies, ink pens, chalk, charcoal sticks and a good old fashion Ticonderoga pencil. 

To round out the pieces in his new FBI office a post it note. The yellow square was in the center of the right wall; upon inspection it read BLANK CANVAS on the first line, open and empty parenthetical brackets on the middle and the last line BY N. CAFFREY. Sitting like Kings at Court were ALL of the Newgrange files in 4 recycled brown bankers boxes. 

Her jussive to him upon her otherwise taciturn exit, “Not in pieces.” To say he was humbled at the kindness of the gesture was an understatement.

November 8, 2013, The Burke’s Residence, 6:30AM

Peter stared at the percolator on the counter as if held all the answers to the secrets of the universe. Sadly it did not. All it held was shattered dreams and coruscant memories of life long past. The beautiful 1950’s red enamel coffee stovetop pot had been a gift from Neal. The kitchen appliance owner was certain it was Neal’s idea to add the little chickens and Cornish game hens along the base. 

Partnered (Peter ground his teeth at the simple word) with the resplendent machine was a bag of Ospina Dynasty Grand Reserve Coffee from the mountains of Columbia, known for its fragrant Azahar, peach, orange and jasmine aroma. With lavish and complex flavor notes of berries, chocolate, coconut, and macadamia; plus a lush velvety and perfectly well balanced bod and finally a clean crisp, fruity and refreshing wine like aftertaste. At least that is what the bag had said. It was also $770 for and 8.8ounce bag. Neal overachiever that he was had secured him a 1pound bag.

As beautiful as the percolator was and as absolutely amazing as the coffee tasted each and every time he sipped it. It was the handcrafted card that accompanied these java delights that was the most precious of gifts he received from Neal, that lagniappe was safe in his drawer in his admiral blue dresser in the attic. The piece had three drawers. The middle drawer housed his private keepsakes for some reason (most likely the illusion of a safety buffer) he kept the first and third drawers empty. The words on the card were few, yet they were the most important Neal had offered him. 

“Peter - The finest coffee for the finest man. XO Neal.” 

Peter went about his coffee preparations like an automaton, fill with water, put on stove, open bag, get scoop… He was far from the finest man. At least the finest man that Neal wrote about here. Never again would he be the finest man to Neal. The finest man was a man with empathy, fortitude, a man with loyalty. 

Neal had been loyal to him and somehow, despite the uncertainty of their partnership (Peter worked at the lump that had suddenly taken up residence in his throat) and tenuousness of the situation as whole continued to provide him fidelity. And what had he provided in return? Peter’s wedding ring ground into the mug that somehow made way into his hand as he answered the question, most certainly not loyalty.

The hand painted watercolor portrait of the percolator presently located on the front burner of the Burke family stove was meticulously rendered in hues of vermillion and sangria. The pottery wheel crafted mug in his left hand had completed the trifurcate of coffee mattered gifts. 

On the card aside from the words he could no longer, if he ever did, live up too was a signature just below the art and a notation on the back. ‘Coffee at Burke, By Neal Caffrey.’ An original Neal Caffrey. 

The former baseball player grabbed a knitted potholder as he filled the cup. Another gift, this one from his well intentioned if overly yarned mother in law. The coffee drinker slunk like a thief in the night (though it was early morning) into the living room. 

He placed the gifted mug on top of a gifted knitted coaster (again from his mother in law) as he pulled out his phone. His stomach rolled and his balls tucked at the action he was about to complete. The White Collar ASAC checked Neal’s tracking data. 

He knew it would show that the young man was within his two-mile radius. He knew Neal wouldn’t run, whether out of fealty to Peter or the heavy burden of his task or a form of self inflicted abuse he wasn’t sure. Peter just knew Neal would not run. 

The Marshall’s link showed that the native of DC was already at the office. No doubt filing his weekly report while the office sat empty. That way there was no chance of the CI running into the Agent. Peter lowered his heavy is the head into his hands. How had his world come to this? 

‘Get out of my sight, you make me sick.’ Of course this would be the first time in the history of the White Collar world that Neal listened to him without argument or censure. The man of many hat tricks heeded his words to the letter not just the spirit. Peter had not had chance to lay eyes on the younger man in a week, a solid week. 

He had meant it at the time. Hadn’t he? They needed this break if they were ever to come out the other side intact. What did intact mean? Physically standing? Peter didn’t even know if they were doing that. They had changed as people. There was the before Dynamic Duo and the after Shells of Soldiers in Arms. 

Peter hadn’t realized, not really, not in his heart of hidden hearts just how much he had come to mean to the young CI. There were days he thought he was just the longest con of the man’s questionable actions career. The lawman was so sure that the system, his system, the system he faithfully served and believed in would do the right thing. 

In the end it was Neal who took responsibility for his fathers actions. He had gone to the mattresses for him. And in response Peter had provided Neal his own severed equine skull. 

Two envelopes lay on the table in front of him. 

One provided to him by Landon Shepard a high-powered political fixer who Peter had come to a grudging agreement with. Landon had more connections than Ma Bell had phone lines. Her inroads, backroom deals and abilities to secure information were as fascinating as they were secret. The sheath was simply marked, P. Burke, Personal and confidential.

The second envelope was something of a shock. 

Like a thief in the night (the irony was not lost of him) he had liberated his wife’s special phone, the one used to contact only one person. The law enforcement officer knew he would only have one chance at speaking with the (rightly so) over protective of his mon frère conspiracy believing anti government pigeon owning man. 

He didn’t know how Mozzie knew it was he on the phone he didn’t even want to contemplate. Moz simply said, “Suit.” There was no recrimination in the one word no anger, no churlishness. In fact it seemed as if the be-speckled man was expecting him to reach out. 

“Mozzie, I will owe you.” 

“Whatever you need is for Neal Peter, you owe me nothing.” 

Peter. He had called him Peter. 

The words ‘You can either be a Suit or Peter. You can’t be both’ adorned the cover of the white envelope opposite the brown. Sage words from a little man who loved his friend so much he had not only spoken to the agent when he reached out, he had provided Peter with the one thing he wasn’t able to provide himself. Forgiveness. 

“Forgiveness works two ways, in most instances. People have to forgive themselves too. The powerful have to forgive themselves for their behavior. Sidney Poitier.” Mozzie’s words were just this side of healing at the very least they were what helped Peter on the long, long road to healing. 

“In a battle of katzenjammer Suit, I would say you both need to remember the words of Neal Shusterman, the measure of a man is not how much he suffers in the test, but how he comes out at the end.” There had been a pause and then “what is it I can do for you?”

The enormity of the decision was not lost on the Agent. If he opened Landon’s envelope he would be a suit. If he opened Mozzie’s (strangely enough) he would be Peter. He turned the white package over in his hand. “You are free to choose, but you are not free from the consequences of your choice.” - A Universal Paradox.

There was no way Mozzie could have known about the choice in front of him. He could either be a Suit or Peter. With unsteady fingers ‘Peter’ opened the portal to the information he requested of Mozzie. A man who had more integrity of character and generosity of soul than Peter had previously given him credit for.

What right did he have to the information provided here in? Did he deserve to know what secrets lay in his hands? Was this a breach of privacy far beyond any perpetrated against him? Was this a breach of his personal ethics? Of his morals? Did reading this put him farther and farther away from being that ‘fine man?’

Before a conscious decision could be made something that had been attached to the glue on the flap broke way cascading in the air, landing with slide next to Satchmo’s water bowl. Unconsciously Peter reached over to retrieve what he know discerned was a photograph. 

The face in the photograph was bulging something fierce. Discoloration had set in like a sunset before the storm. One blue eye was almost swollen shut the other in an attempt to not be out done was not far behind. The strong chin looked as if it met with a can opener in a dark alley. The laceration at his hairline was gaping exposing raw flesh not unlike raw hamburger meat at a butcher counter. His cheeks looked a like Rorschach inkblot test (his father in law would have appreciated the reference) of bruises and blood.

November 8, 2013, FBI Evidence Storage, Cold Case Counter, Office of N. Caffrey, 4:45PM

Neal sat in his padded missionary style chair that looked straight out of a 1940’s movie. There was a smattering of Newgrange files in front of him. He was on the right path. The man sensed it in his marrow. These were the files that held the missing pieces to the puzzle he needed to solve.

Periodically when his blue eyes required momentary rest he would glace over at the rock. He still had not questioned the schoolmarm about the heavy roughened in some places jagged in others gainsboro colored rock. Aside from a brown bag mysteriously sitting in the center of his desk upon a return from the restroom he had no interaction with the lady in the front office. 

In fact the lady in head to toe black even todays sweater choice was the color of night. If he thought her in capacity of the capabilities he would have said she looked like a cat ready to burgle. Grace spent most her time locked at her l shaped desk behind the counter. Whatever she had been toiling away at kept her coke bottle covered brown eyes laser focused to the screen in front her.

The only notable interruption in the laser focus a phone call from someone he heard her refer to as Tabby. With the barest hint of annoyance she acknowledged she wouldn’t forget to pick up the milk and the eggs. Silence reigned in the vestibule for the remainder of the day. 

Because of the continued soundlessness from the front the file focused reader startled a bit when there was a knock at his door. Neal still hadn’t wrapped his head around the fact he had a door, granted ajar at the moment, but a door and an actual office, at a federal building. The Jacob K. Javits building at 26 Federal Plaza to be exact. Surreal was the word that hung in his head.

“Mr. Caffrey, I wanted to advise you that my departure will take place late today. If you find you have need of staying, I shall be here until 7:00PM or there abouts.” Her voice had improved over the past week to what he surmised was her normal soft octave. 

“Thank you Ms. Carney. I would love to take advantage of the delayed departure time.” He went to continue his thought, which would have led him to a thank you for the filling lunch of shepherd's pie and pomegranate orange salad. However, she smiled, nodded and dematerialized all with in seconds. 

Upon his settling back into the file in front of him his eyes landed on a page folded and tucked between two pages at the back. His prestidigitating hands made quick work at rescuing the paper. This was the all-important centerpiece to the puzzle, the major break in the case that was needed to fit all the other supporting pieces together.

Clink. Neal looked to his right. A mug of what he assumed because of the mini marshmallow atop the steaming liquid was hot chocolate lay next to the rolled cuff of his white shirt. Joining the crimson mug, a matching plate with homemade purple sweet potato pie. “I know it is not your normal fare Mr. Caffrey. I just figured Friday nights are ok to break from the monotony of the week.”

“Thank you Ms. Carney” Neal said as he took a nip from the mug that masqueraded as a soup porringer when needed. This hot chocolate was not from a white packet of chalk dust. This was mixed by elves and dusted by fairies. He tested the liquid again the second sip exceeded the first.

Blue eyes landed on the aubergine colored desert with interest. This was a supreme example of the art of baking. The dish encapsulated the merging of decadence and comfort. His first bite brought forth a moan of satisfaction. The midnight haired man had the good grace to look chagrined. Brown eyes twinkled like stars on a pale moon night. “Thank you Mr. Caffrey for such a venerable compliment. Coming from a man with a refined palate such as yours it is high praise indeed.”

The baker headed back to her desk and the bank of computer monitors littering the surface. Neal gazed down at the culinary offerings. Ms. Carney never made him feel less than a man, she was well aware of his electronic shackle, yet never sought to belittle him because of it. She never asked of him anything not even to change the bottle atop the water dispenser. She never made him feel like well the man upstairs. His eyes glanced at the clock, 5:02PM, well the man formally upstairs.

Apparently his report was sufficient in detail. The CI half expected Agent Burke to come barging down here to the morgue in search of him. Wanting to re-verify all the information in the reports or more to the point verify that Neal was actually in progress on the task provided him and not searching about ways to free captivity.

Another part of him knew the agent was just content to have the criminal out of his sight. That way he wasn’t sick. Neither man had any real desire to embrangle himself with the other. The work-released felon had no idea the ASAC of White Collar had not even come into work that day. He called out sick, because of the very thing he sought to avoid, the sight of Neal. Only, it had been a photographic reproduction of Neal. 

The faint sounds of what was the instrumental version of Puccini’s ‘O Mio Babbino Caro’ sounded from past his door. Ms. Carney never ceased to surprise him with the information he learned about her. The violin in this piece was transcendent neigh on otherworldly. The classical music aficionado would have to inquire as to the musician so that he might hunt down a copy.

Two and something hours later there was a donnybrook for his attention. A knock on his door from violin music loving baker who wore shitkicker's to work and a call on his phone. He silenced the ringer on his black I-phone. 

“Mr. Caffrey are you at a place you can stop with incident?” The woman questioned in earnest. She didn’t want him to lose traction if he found progress in whatever it was that held his rapt attention. 

“Yes, Ms. Carney, let me just finish my last note.” 

Mere minutes later, Neal donned his onyx colored Tom Ford Cashmere Chesterfield coat, held his vintage Dobb’s of 5th Avenue New York fedora in the one hand and his umbrella in other. He used the rain cover as a walking stick as they made their way to the freight elevator.

“Thank you for the cocoa and the pie.” The pie was said with such adoration and appreciation the baker of the confection blushed. Interesting, he hadn’t had a chance to view her in this light before. 

“Thank you for such praise for my culinary offering. It was just pie Mr. Caffrey.” 

“It was not JUST pie. That slice of amazement and wonder it was as if the Tuatha de Dannan mixed their magic in it and served it on a golden platter.” Her cheeks he realized had increased in hue to a lovely shade of crimson. 

The lady was quite abashed at his laudatory of her apron skills. Ms. Carney was not a woman who received compliments ever if at all, certainly not enough to be comfortable with the interaction. Neal understood he hadn’t received very many true compliments in his life either. 

To provide her one more smile and way of thanks he did his hat trick that never ceased to make her giggle like a schoolgirl on the blacktop. Her midnight blue colored fingernail called for the elevator that would bring them up to the land of the living. 

As they alighted towards the outside world they spoke of Joshua Bell the world-renowned violinist responsible for the beautiful rendition of O Mio Babbino Caro he heard early. The lover of strings let him know it was from his Romance of the Violin compilation. Neal made note of it in his memory palace.

As they stepped out into the New York night of nary above freezing temperatures and winds Herculean enough to move him without his consent Neal reminded his sidewalk companion that Tabby needed milk and eggs. 

Her black wool capped (no fluffy ball atop, this was not a woman who would have time for such things) head turned at the reminder. The man was almost certain the reply she thought and the reply she returned to him were not one in the same. 

“Thank you for the recollect Mr. Caffrey. I do hope you have a wonderful evening and restful weekend.” She was in earnest about the wonderful evening and restful weekend he could clearly see that. He could also see the shadow that passed her face with regards to Tabby and the need for sundries.

“Good Night Ms. Carney, may your forthcoming time away from the Federal Building be filled with peace and joy.” As an afterthought he added, “and baking!” Her good-natured chuckle made him smile as they turned in their separate directions.


	5. The measure of a man is what he does with power

NEW A/N: Top of the Day Readers! This is a little FYI for those of you who are already in progress with this story. Per a suggestion from an amazing and wonderful mentor I have made some stylistic edits to make the story (and it’s multiple languages) easier to read! 

A/N: There are references in this story to:

The Song: Danny Boy, By Frederick E. Weatherly 

The Poem: The Road Not Taken, By Robert Frost 

“The measure of a man is what he does with power.”  
~ Plato

READER DESCRITIEN IS ADVISED: This chapter may not be suitable for all audiences. This chapter contains violence, violence of a child and sexual content.

December 1, 1992, Abandoned Rewbrey Barn, Lake Annette, Missouri 

“Ní mór duit cuimhneamh go bhfuil tú bruscar Niall,” (You need to remember you are trash Neal) the man with the missing front tooth labored out as his brown colored eyes skittered about the scene in front of him and smiled with the satisfaction of a job well done. The boy lay beneath him. The lines that would turn into that tell tale smirk the cac beag (little shit) seemed fond of wearing were unrecognizable. Niall’s consistently twinkling blue eyes were dimming as he was succumbing to his battle with consciousness. His five foot nine body looked like he had gone thirty rounds with a battering ram. And lost.  
  
The man wanted to teach the fifteen years old a lesson in manners. Maybe a bit more than a lesson he thought as he looked at what had brought this carnage about, his hands. His boxer’s knuckles were splintered open. Skin gaping like a cracked open can of beans, he felt like a phlebotomist with his hands this saturated in the teenager’s blood. The man raised his bruised swollen digits to swipe sweat soaked hair from eyes filled with pernicious indifference. 

Actions or lack there of have consequences. When your responsibilities aren’t seen too, you catch a beating. Fiadh and this piece of trash she called her son, had not held up her and by default his oath to the Family. What had possessed his sister to name her spawn after their Da? His stomach turned at the thought of this pretty boy who had more charm than sense walking around with a name that belonged to such man as his beloved patriarch. 

Of course Niall had a different out side name here. What was it? Danny? Oh Danny Boy. My pipes, my pipes are calling… it’s you, it’s you must go… The castigator whistled. Danny Boy had not held up his obligations. Since his father was not here to show an buachaill (the boy) what happened when you didn’t do what you are told, he would illustrate what happens in the shadow. 

The malevolent man could have figured out another way to bring about the desired change, but he was inveterate abuser, he liked meting out pain. That and this would drive home the message to his deirfiúr (sister) that she had disappointed the family. She was a disgrace to the Caffrey’s. 

He always knew his deirfiúr (sister) wasn’t quite right in the head. That is why his father thought merging her with the Bennett cop was a good match. Someone who Da could control and someone who could in turn control his wife. Instead, the leathcheann (idiot) went and killed someone. Not a problem, the nodus was he got caught. 

Fiadh then refused to move onto the new man he had chosen to merge her with. She was fine with a few here and there, but “no more husbands.” Her addled brain was causing her to not complete even simple tasks now. Instead she meted out most if not all her to do lists to the demon child, the one named after their athair. (Father.) 

The fifteen year old below him was furled in a half cocoon on the dung infested hay entrenched floor. Cairbre hung his head in exhaustion as he pushed his roughen fingers into the young mans marred visage, resting them for the briefest of seconds on a long healed over scar from another time and place. As the barn combatant slide them off into the air above the grey tee shirt the pugilist noticed the shirt had ridden up in the fracas. His eyes locked on the area he first made contact with.  
  
His cement block of a fist started with a truculent blow to the latissimus dorsi. The uncle knew if he looked Niall in those pretty boy blue eyes the girls and some of the boys got all weak in their knees for the first hit he would have just broken his jaw and were was the fun in that? You have to play a little with your prey. Oh, Danny Boy, oh Danny Boy, I hate you so.

The teenager rocked forward on his well-worn motorcycle boots. The turn was swift the fighter’s stance steady and ready to go. At least that is something the older man mused his eyebrow cocked at the lock in the cac beags body. He responded just how I taught him. Realizing that it was his uncle the coal head stretched his recently assaulted back. Relaxing his prone posture the younger man looked his Uncle square in the eyes, “Cad é an ifreann? Táimid ar an taobh céanna.” (What the hell? We are on the same side.)

“Ní dhearna,” (No) the senior Caffrey replied ready to continue the punishment with a certain amount of glee. “Caithfidh tú Niall a fhoghlaim. Ní theipeann ort teaghlach gan iarmhairtí,” (You have to learn Neal. You do not fail a family without consequence,) his baritone voice rattled of the yellow washed walls of the abandoned Rewbrey barn “cuir suas iad.” (Put them up.) Indurating his body the uncle unsleeved his tattered saffron colored corduroy coat careful not to jar the cargo in the pocket.

As the coat pooled on the barn floor he threw a full strength punch at his sister’s boy. As the five foot nine fifteen year old went flying into the air, the timepiece that adorned the six foot six mans wrist joined the acrobat in flight. The brother could just make out the last half of the inscription as it rapidly descended, “Love Fiadh.” He sneered at such a worthless thought.   
  
The unrestrained ferocity of the hit set the boy flying several feet. He landed with a slide into the tires on an old rusted John Deere 730. 

“Uncail?” (Unlce?) His nephews voice was a roughened mix of confusion at not understanding what he had done wrong to bring on such a harsh punishment and obsequiousness hoping to belay the respect he was trying to give his elder. 

Start as you mean to go on, the merciless man’s maniacal laugh was the only answer the one word question received. He landed on Danny Boy with all the grace of a sack of potatoes fallen off the back of a market truck. Punch after obdurate punch he landed in quick succession. The pummeling was beginning to distort the tire rester's features. Danny Boy’s well-boned cheeks were a tic tac toe board of bruises and blood. Good, maybe all this blood would grow the boy some balls. 

“Bain triail as troid cosúil le fear, ní an bruscar atá tú,” (Try fighting like a man, You are trash,) the unwavering abuser heckled the broken body beneath him. The hours he spent learning him to fight and fight dirty had infuriatingly taught him next to nothing, such a waste of his all-important time. The fifteen year old rolled his head to the side, blood free flowing off his lips onto the ordue-infested hay beside him. 

The older man slapped the exposed cheek hard with his open hand. The head rolled back, unsteady arms rose in an attempt to block the fists of fury raining down upon him like boulders in an avalanche. The five foot eight young man really had tried his attenuated coordination and etiolated strength were no match for Cairbre Caffrey gladiator strength. 

From his place atop the heap of bones that made up his nephew he could see that Danny Boys face was swelling, his one cheek looked like a mashed breakfast grapefruit, his other distended as if he held the grapefruit below it. His much sought after alabaster canvas was now enhanced with a palate of Prussian blue, eggplant purple and scarlet red. 

He right window was near to closing with swell, his darkened lashes no longer visible as the valley obscured them. The other one was a potpourri of subconjunctival hemorrhage. Flayed flesh sat open near his hairline like a fish at the market. That would leave a scar. Cairbre smiled at the thought. A reminder to déan an rud a deirtear leat i gcónaí. (Always do what you are told)

The leaky faucet cut dripped, dripped, and dripped sanguine fluid in uneven tracks down the only eye open enough to watch him. He watched as it weltered over the boy’s rocky crag of a cheek and onto his Caffrey inherited chin. The edges of which resembled carved deli meat waiting to be served.  
  
Cairbre pushed his knee into his sundering nephew’s sternum with just enough pressure to elicit a response. The six foot six man didn’t want to just toss the cac beag (little shit) around like an old rag doll that had lost its stuffing. He needed there to be a little fire in the coals he was stroking. The uncle was not disappointed, this was the hostility that finally served to make Danny Boy respond. The fifteen year old focused all his bucking and braying efforts on dislodging the gargoyle that sat atop him.

The senior Caffrey nailed the younger with an elbow to the now exposed abdomen. Continuing on with the momentum, the pugilist landed a hardened fast moving fist to the groin. A direct hit to the Battleship. The young man’s face crashed in waves of agony. 

The black haired young man was not unaccustomed to fighting through physical pain. Years of living with the Caffrey Campaigns of Sadism made sure of that. The pushing back persisted; he rocked his body like an angered rodeo bull at tournament. The 150-pound teenager was victorious in his quest. Cairbre wasn’t expecting the strength in the pummeled young man’s body. The prizefighter was sent rolling onto his backside with an unceremonious thump his hip eventually making contact with an old barn nail. 

“Cén fáth?” (Why?) The questioning uttered in broken whispers from a mouth coated in blood, “cén fáth?” (Why?) Knocking his uncle off him was the nearly broken body’s one burst of brawn. Or so the uncle thought. He shouldn’t have been so complacent about Danny Boy not learning any fighting dirty tricks.

The barbarous man could see the energy was tapering out like a candle a top a birthday cake. Cairbre could hear it in the enervated voice as it cracked on the second cén fáth. (Why?) Normally that voice was confident filled with the knowledge that he knew something you didn’t and cocky, cocky as all hell. Now the measured cadence was ensanguined and fading to the ether.   
  
November 16, 2013, June’s Rooftop Apartment (Previously refereed to as Neal’s Apartment) 3:12AM

Sage green tree adorned flannel sheets flew up towards the ceiling as the man beneath them woke with a start. Neal could feel his heart punching through his chest like a rescue worker at a caved in mine. The only sound he heard was the steady beat of the drumming in his ears. 

The bedsitter knew he had to calm himself. Breathe. In through the nose, hold for eight, out through the mouth, hold for eight. He could feel his entire body shaking like the spin cycle on June’s Maytag dryer downstairs in the yellow daisy adorned laundry room. Breathe. In through the nose, hold for eight, out through the mouth, hold for eight.

Neal repeated this again and again until he brought his heart rate down. He hadn’t thought of his uncle or the night he left Missouri in a long, long time. Two roads had diverged in a wood… or in a bloodied hay strewn barn that night. He could not travel both. 

“You can either be a con or a man. You can’t be both.” 

Blue eyes skittered around the room eventually landing on the wooden slab shelf above the sink. He sought out the coffee mug, tankard really. The nectar holder was slightly obscured by an old leather bound book with a two inch gash in the spine that almost faded in to alabaster hide, the sides worn down from the abuse of hands constantly grabbing at them. 

Neal swallowed his gazed entranced by the book, the book that could be him. The scar on his lower spine twitched a clonus. His artist hand instinctively grabbed at his sides feeling the long healed over bones in his ribcage. One bump, two bump, three. 

“Neal, if you ever decide to grow up…” 

What did that man know? Had he ever really been a child? Not since the day he was three and he watched his dad walk down those stairs and right out of his life. Why hadn’t he just stayed gone? He had a good thing here with White Collar; it wasn’t perfect, neither was he.

He moved his hands to his hair moving the agglomerated pieces of his forehead. His eyes landed on the mug again. Had he ever cared for him? Somehow knowing what he knew now, no. He really thought Agen—Pet—that man had. “You’re the only one.” 

“The one. One what?”

The only person in my life I trust.” Neal swallowed reflectively at the memory of that day on the floor handcuffed to that flimsy chair.

As he matriculated into adulthood, the one constant, the one goal he had, to be a lawman like his dad. His mother told him time and again how much James had helped people. Even her. He had died helping people, saving them from bad men. He wanted to help people, save them. Save them from bad people. Save them from situations he found himself in. 

Maybe in a way he wanted Agen-that man-Pet to protect him. No one had ever protected him. From anything. Ever. That trust, if it had ever really been there in the first place was dissolved like the courage he felt to fight for it. “You’re the only one.”

“The one. One what?” 

“The only person in my life I trust.” When Pet-Agen-that man put his had atop his head it was the first time he encountered a hand raised in kindness. 

Neal looked back at the worn and weathered book. He guessed in the end he really was like his dad. A no good murder who scorched the earth with his evil and tarnished everything he touched. Two roads diverged in a wood… or in a bloodied hay strewn barn that night. He could not travel both. His eyes traveled back to that freezing Midwestern night.

Which road would he take? Long he stood looking about the wooden nueraghe to where it bent with age his eyes taking in the tractor rusted and weathered with decay. Which road would he take? There was only one thing left for him to do before he headed into the emborrowment of trees. The path beneath him was littered with snow and decayed leaves. He doubted he would return to this spot. A sigh mixed with sanguine fluid escaped him. 

Two roads diverged in a wood… His legs were shaky as he headed to his uncles old gray Ford truck with missing muds flaps and the cracked rear window. Neal Caffrey took the road well traveled that night. The road that purposely and with acknowledged determination spirited him away from the body that lay beneath the earth. Had it made all the difference?

The work-released felon knew sleep was something he wouldn’t visit again that evening. He slid his feet off the bed, his pants leg stuck under the ankle monitor. Neal stared at the shackle binding him with Federal Bureau of Investigation. If ever that man came to know of that long ago night, well it wouldn’t be a nice rubber shackle binding him.

Why had he used this mug to make the hot cocoa? Neal swallowed the first sip of Ms. Carney’s special sauce. When he asked her what the ingredients were she simply replied, “spice and everything nice Mr. Caffrey.” A heavy hand knocked the tankard down; the etched lines adorning the front glistened under the lamp light to his left.

“You can either be a con or a man. You can’t be both.” The lawman’s words rattled in his head. Try as he might he just couldn’t bring to call him by his given name. Given names were for coworkers, for friends, for brothers. “Everyone in the White Collar offices, we’re family and… you’re part of that family.” He wasn’t any of those descriptions, not anymore.

Neal took a roughened gulp of the witch’s special brew. He wasn’t a con, not anymore. He wasn’t a man either. He doubted he had ever been. He was an actor on a stage. An actor with a part to play. What happened when the curtains fell? He wouldn’t run. “You’re also a criminal.” He would simply provide the Agent his hands. Prison was where he belonged.

November 20, 2013, FBI Evidence Storage, Cold Case Counter, 3:15PM

Why wouldn’t the damn tie loosen? He made sure to only use a single Windsor. The Assistant Special Agent in Charge pulled at the noose round his neck as he labored to get his erratic breathing under control. How did Neal do this ride every damn day? How long did it take to get to damn basement? Well he muttered to himself he wasn’t always coming from the 51st floor. God he missed him. 

Grace looked up at the shake the wall gave, and then waited for the horror movie creak and the haunted house groan, then one two, ‘ding.’ Who in the world was headed down here? Neal was already safe in his file closet of an office listening to some old tapes on the boom box she rescued from the bone room. Well worn out in service room officially but bone room to everyone else.

Most people weren’t even left in the building, this was the start of leave early time, from now until Christmas, use it or lose it. And this close to turkey day, people were using it. When the doors opened she guessed she should have been shocked to see the person stepping out of the freight conveyance, really though who else could it be?

“Excuse Ma’am, I am ASAC Peter Burke with White Collar on the 51st.” 

Ma’am knew Neal couldn’t hear because of those big old black headphones she found. She doubted he could have heard the fire alarm let alone one person speaking in reverent tones with the those thick rubber tires covering his ears.

“Good Afternoon ASAC Burke. How may I be of service today?” The lady behind the wooden counter respectfully asked the senior agent. 

“I am needing to secure a file.” He handed over the pertinent information and request form looking around in apprehension a little sweat trickling off his brow.

As Ms. Carney typed the required details into her computer as she questioned her visitor, “ASAC Burke…”

“Please call me Peter.” The man with the askew slightly crumpled tie interrupted. 

“ASAC Burke, are you alright? You look a bit flushed. Would you like some water?” 

Peter smiled at her grateful for the offer. “Yes ma’am. I would love some water thank you.” 

Her eyes were gentle and a bit too understanding as she responded, “I shall return posthaste.” His light brown eyes tracked her as she headed to the right down a small corridor.

As low key as she could when passing Neal’s door the water retriever secured the tape listeners attention. Once his sky blues found her she mouthed “Agent Burke” in warning so he would not come out unaware and thus mentally unprepared for any discourse. Though they had not had chance to speak of the disintegrated partnership, the fact that Neal was relegated to the basement something akin to an unwanted troll elucidated as to the grandness of the fissure. As she was turning to secure the water for Agent Burke she saw the man’s already pale skin drain of what little color it had. 

True to her word the lady had returned posthaste with a large glass of water. “Here you go ASAC Burke. Nice and cold.” 

Peter took a welcomed gulp off the top, “thank you…” he let the sentence hang for her to fill in the blank.

“Grace.” She replied offering no more in the way of conversation. 

“Thank you Grace.” He took another needed sip, “this was much needed.”

“I have located the area your file in located in sir. Would you like to accompany me? Or would you rather I went and retrieved it. If you like I can even bring it to you back on the 51st. I am sure being an ASAC requires demands on your time.”

She was trying to provide him an out that allowed for him to maintain some semblance of dignity. He really must look a reddened mess. 

Before he could respond, his CI took the liberty, “Ms. Carney I would be happy to assist with the retrieval, I don’t think Agent Burke here would care much for the BME.” Peter’s head turned at the acronym he was as of yet not familiar with. 

“BME?” His first words to Neal in the White Collar building in some 19 days and he said BME? Well technically he had said it to the room at large.

“It is an old metal ping pong of an elevator Agent Burke. You wouldn’t be the only thing to cowboy up, if you catch my drift.” 

Peter’s eyes narrowed slightly. This was Neal the actor and oh was he acting. He was cool, detached, and even a little humorous. Everything you needed to be to put your audience at ease. Still when he locked eyes with Neal he could see the barest if you squinted with Mozzie’s bifocals on compassion in them.

The younger felon understood his trepidation, neigh on stone cold fear of enclosed spaces. Neal was trying to save him the possibility of loosing face or something else like his stomach contents. 

Before either man could say anything, the lady present interrupted, “gentleman. I as much as the next girl appreciate chivalry in all its regal display and finery. However, I feel need to remind you, I have been ridding the BME alone. Long before White Collar and its fine upstanding gents ever graced my space.” She smiled at their dropped lower lips. 

Neal spoke up, “Ms. Carney, it was not my intention to infer you could not secure the files without assistance, with your recent injured I thought I might land a hand.” Peter looked surreptitiously at her hands; the right palm had a rather large bandage across it. 

“We will return presently ASAC Burke.” She relayed with somewhat annoyed resignation in her voice. He understood, sometimes you wanted to be right. Usually that was when Neal made the most sense.

Peter watched as duo walked in comfortable step down the hall to the BME Ping-Pong elevator, which apparently if he read the CI’s innuendo right did some damage to your sack. Neal was different with the chunky lady in the horrendously oversized sweater and glasses that looked as if they might snap her nose like a twig if she moved to fast. He couldn’t say for certain, though he was almost sure she aphonicaly warned the man in the wool gabardine suit and burgundy tie of his arrival.

They did in fact return presently though with Neal walking a slight bit bowlegged and her eyes twinkling a bit too much at his funny walk. “Agent Burke, your files.” Neal grin was light up as if on stage, his teeth shining white and bright. His face hallow with emptiness. 

Peter received the box and said, “thank you Neal. Maybe you might come upstairs today.” Neal swallowed a little too hard to be relaxed, “I need you to sign a few reports.” 

He couldn’t do it, not after watching the smallest clench in his one hand and the automatic stress response of carding his other through his hair. Hair that now hid a long healed over scar. All Peter could see when he looked at Neal in that moment was the fifteen year old who had the stuffing beat out of him, quite literally.

“I’m leaving early. I need to pick up the little chickens for El.” Neal stilled his body the last time he had been invited to the Burkes for dinner they had served, the little chickens or more correctly Cornish game hens. “I’ll leave them on your desk with Socrates.” A strange look passed his CI’s face when he said ‘his desk.’

“Thank you Agent Burke, I will make sure everything is taken care of before I depart today.” Neal turned to head back into his downstairs office to collect himself before heading to his upstairs office. 

As he rounded the corner he heard the older man say, “Thank you Grace. Thank you.” He hung his head; he doubted very much that was about the files.

Neal’s heart do-so-doed for the duration of the upward elevator flight. He worked hard at guarding his body’s machinations from his traveling companion. Yet as he looked at her smile and listened to her tell a story about the day the Davis file box gave way in the windstorm he was certain somehow she knew he was a bit unsteady. And thus provided him much needed distraction without the déclassé of pointing out of what she was doing. 

As the thrift store attired duo exited the metal conveyance on to the 51st floor into the wilds of the White Collar office the lady let out a whistle. Neal turned his bright blue eyes at her in question to the construction worker call. 

“Mr. Caffrey, these windows are huge! Imagine being able to see the outside world during the day.” He laughed at her commentary on their life beneath the surface. 

Through the glass double doors he could see Clinton Jones clicking away at his keyboard. He straightened his tie and opened the door for the lady. The office was now his stage and Agent Jones his audience. “Agent Jones, this is Ms. Carney she works downstairs in Evidence and File Storage. Ms. Carney this is Agent Jones.” 

Clinton Jones took in the people standing in front of his desk. The White Collar CI had on a darkened gray wool suit, a cranberry tie and pocket square and a perfectly relaxed face. The lady next to him, was as bland as they come, black pants, black blouse, gray sweater, thick glasses, tight old lady bun, on the thicker side a light dusting of make up, though nothing that made her stand out.

“Caffrey! Its good to see you.” Neal could tell the Harvard graduate meant that. “Hey once you are finished with your paperwork, would you mind coming to the conference room and looking at something? I could use your eyes, and your thoughts.” 

The work-released felon smiled an easy going smile, “of course Jones.” Neal turned and headed the inches to his desk.

“Agent Jones” the bland lady spoke. “ASAC Burke came downstairs for records in this case,” she handed him a file. “This one must have slipped out of his box. I wanted to make sure it was turned into you.” Clinton Jones received the file from the clerk. He signed the clipboard underneath noting the day and time, so as to keep record of the chain of command. 

“Thank you Ms. Carney.” The agent offered. “I will make sure Peter is made aware of the missing piece.” 

She nodded, “have a good night Agent Jones.” 

She turned towards the elevator, stopping at Neal’s desk, “Mr. Caffrey, enjoy your evening. And if I don’t see you below tomorrow, your forthcoming day as well.” 

The smile that Neal offered her was genuine even relaxed Jones could tell, his eyes twinkled and his head tilted, “thank you Ms. Carney. Enjoy your evening. Hopefully you will be able to finish the book tonight!” Her only response was a hearty laugh as she breached the doors to the vestibule.

“Okay, paperwork is signed, t’s are crossed, I’s are dotted. What would you like me to look at?” Neal followed the agent up the small set of stairs his feet hadn’t set foot on since leaving Agent Burkes office. ‘Get out of my sight, you make me sick.’ Blue eyes flitted past the closed door of the senior staff member. True to his word the New York native had taken early leave. 

November 20, 2013, The Burke’s Residence, 7:00PM

“Hon, I picked up those little chickens,” Peter said as he entered the door at 106 Cambridge Place in Brooklyn. 

“Thank you for picking up the Hens, hon.” His beautiful wife met him with a kiss. 

Peter’s eyes arched a bit. “That’s quite the welcome for a Wednesday.” 

Blue eyes coruscated at him. “I missed you.” She received the poultry from her husband and walked back towards the kitchen. Peter watched the seductive sway of her hips.

The husband followed his wife into the kitchen. He watched as El prepared the funny little chickens. It seemed strange to have this meal without Neal. It was their meal, their family meal. His eyes looked over to wear Neal would have been standing, chopping vegetables to put in that little cooker pot he and El liked.

Elizabeth looked at her husband, his eyes lost to a view master only he could see the picture on, took in the grief as it cascaded over his face is waves. Waves trapped in a storm at sea. She walked over to the man she loved with all her being, laying her head on his heart. He brought his hands around her, resting his 7 o’clocked shadowed chin atop her head.

He felt her shift against him, his eneverated meat suit startled at the intimate contact. They had not come together since his return from the Met. That’s what they had taken to calling his say at the prison. His wife’s sweet softened lips grazed his chest. 

Why were her lips osculating at his chest? Why now, weren’t they expecting company in a short space of time? He shifted uncomfortably from the reaction her frottage actions were starting to cause. In hopes of removing any type of erotogenic thoughts of her proceleusmatic movements, the former baseball player ran through the information he had learned from the file earlier. It was all about wood. He focused on wood types and their uses in his head.

Wood, he closed his eyes. Wood was smooth and scelerous… His toes scrunched in his Cambridge Oxfords, his thoughts were turning lubricious. So not what needed to happen right now. Actually what needed to happen right now was some hammering for his wood. Still they had a visitor immanent.

Hopefully El’s bussing of his chest would belay. Allowing them to suffer out the waiting period in peace. Her hand moved from around his waist, sliding it Saradanapalianly up his chest. Her fingers fluttered over the pulse in his neck, lightly dusting the area with feather like touches. Peter’s breathing hitched as she replaced the digits with her lipstick adorned lips.

Her caresses were delicate as she trailed upwards. She tickled his shadowed chin, traced the lines on his physiognomy. He swallowed convulsively. Well-acquainted hands reached for his wife hips. A low throaty growl rumbled up through his chest as she continued her kissing exploration of his neck.

They jumped in unison as the front door rattled under the blows on the knock, knock, knock. Vegetables littered the counter like garden produced Mardi gras confetti. Laughter bubbled forth from her overly kissed lips. Mirth flushed at her face as she giggled at their leaps. She rested her head against his thumping heart.

“To be continued.” She promised her husband. His eyes agreed. Elizabeth was so happy she was seeing the return of a bit of her husband. He had needed time to come to terms with how he was liberated from prison. Time to process her culpability in the plan and Neal’s execution. He needed to start the healing process.

Whatever it was he received last week had helped. He was no longer angry every minute of everyday. He just was. She remember something Mozzie told her, ‘sometimes its ok to just exist and be still.’ El missed her friend almost as much as she missed her husband.

Her head lifted as she heard the voice on the other end of the door. “Suit.” Followed by a subtle throat clear, “ you may want to find a napkin, clean your neck, it appears you have something on it.” Peter laughed intending to respond, “A kiss is a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when words become superfluous, Ingrid Berman.” The balding man smiled true when he saw the blush creep up the other mans cheeks. 

“Mozzie, please come in. We have work to do.” The lawman coughed out.

The unlikely duo headed out on the Burke patio despite the near freezing temperature. Peter switched on the heating lamps that lined the fencing. This conversation was going to make him cold inside. No reason to be cold outside as well.

A/N: Just in Case…

Irish to English Translations Are As Follows:

Ní mór duit cuimhneamh go bhfuil tú bruscar Niall = You need to remember you are trash Neal

Cac beag = Little shit

An buachaill = The boy

Deirfiúr = Sister

Athair = Father

Leathcheann = Idiot

Cad é an ifreann? = What the hell?

Táimid ar an taobh céanna = We are on the same side

Ní dhearna = No 

Caithfidh tú Niall a fhoghlaim = You have to learn Neal

Ní theipeann ort teaghlach gan iarmhairtí = You do not fail a family without consequence

Uncail = Uncle

Cuir suas iad = Put them up

Bain triail as troid cosúil le fear = Try fighting like a man

Ní an bruscar atá tú = You are trash

Déan an rud a deirtear leat i gcónaí = Always do what you are told

Cén fáth? = why?


	6. Of all that we're asked to give others in this life, the most difficult to offer may be forgiveness.

NEW A/N: Top of the Day Readers! This is a little FYI for those of you who are already in progress with this story. Per a suggestion from an amazing and wonderful mentor I have made some stylistic edits to make the story (and it’s multiple languages) easier to read! 

“Of all that we're asked to give others in this life, the most difficult to offer may be forgiveness.”   
~ William Kent Krueger, This Tender Land 

READER DESCRITIEN IS ADVISED: This chapter may not be suitable for all audiences. This chapter contains content sexual in nature.

November 21, 2013, The Burke’s Residence, 2:03AM

Following the departure of the little man with glasses, the lawman went about his nightly ritual of checking the downstairs windows and doors, double checking locks and securing their security alarm. This new system the homeowner shook his head with a rident gaze at the new faceplate had been installed by the man who had just taken his leave. 

Peter had worried that the senior Caffrey might perpetrate some shenanigans in the Burke household. He wanted extra insurance that they were safe from any breaking and entering James thought to do. If he had only known what was to come next the coffee lover would have had Mozzie install alarms on each of their persons.

The homeowner turned down all the lights save the one lamp on the little shelf above the TV. They always kept that electronic candle burning in the window. The espouse was seen as a silent prayer for the safe return of an absent traveler and sign that someone remained home waiting for them, travelers who had matriculated in Missouri most especially. Brown eyes sought out the picture sitting almost in Shiva next to the light. 

The fifty-year-old made quiet entry into the bedroom he shared with the raven hair woman currently in… She was not in bed he noted with an increased heartrate that had nothing to do with amorous pursuits. “Hon?” The husband called out with no small amount of trepidation in search of his wife. Once your spouse had been kidnapped anytime they aren’t where you expect them to be, your world gelates to a crawl.

The door to their master bathroom opened. Peter felt his heart rate return to a regular meter and groove. His beautiful barefoot wife padded over to him. “Peter Tobias Burke, what am I going to do with you? You are soaked. To the bone!” Was he? The man took in his water-imbrued state. He hadn’t had cause to notice prior to El remarking on it. Her eyes were a magical lambent light of unconditional love. She embossed a gentle hand to his cheek her wedding ring warm against his cold skin. The New York native leaned into the touch kissing her opened palm. 

Peter espied as the newly lavender lotioned hand slid with measured grace down his chest. His skin felt the barest touch of the tips as those petite fingers as they worked down the length of his saturated torso toying with the hem of his pluvial aspersed work shirt. The lady’s lips washed the exposed skin below his right ear with her tongue, trailing kisses along the path as the rain matched her movements with the window aback him.

Soon her lithe fingers found the curve of the former baseball player’s hip, her hand worked to inch the shirt from his back. A sigh of exasperation rippled from her mouth, her lip sliding out in scarlet manqué. The once finely pressed garment was now a spider web of cotton stuck to his hide. Showing clemency on his wife’s determined yet unsuccessful actions the husband stepped back and divested himself of the offending barricade allowing the lady full access to the prize she sought. Her breath caught hovering for a second as it swerved toward the edge of the precipice, her husbands in puris chest. He was her jam in the jellyroll.

Peter let out a labored breath as El drank him in as if he were the only water available in a scorching desert. Her hands went back to their previous destination of his hips, she loved the unevenness of his twin towers. The right always slightly higher than the left, perfect for her hand to rest, her fingers teased slightly past the elastic of his boxers. He smelled like a storm in the valley they loved to visit upstate, a resplendent mixture of rain and dirt.

Her fingers ran a path towards his stomach, always his most reactive spot, she was not disappointed when his muscles constricted under her expert touch. Peter swallowed at the tracing of her fingertips, his hair standing at attention. El drew hachures around his twin peaks in a rhythmic dance of finger tango. 

Her tongue soon replaced the digits, drawing figure eights as is skated across his chest, tugging slightly at the hair on his breastplate. Peter rasped out a groan. Her ministrations of his person were stroking the fire in his hearth, he needed more, he needed her, and he needed more of her. Musth hands sought out her ribs. He guided her backwards till she was pressed firmly against the bedroom wall. Outside the weathers symphony matched the movements inside. Thunder played her devil’s music. Wind ululated hers.

Peter’s body pressed into hers a protuberate forming beneath his pants. The light sconce above her darkened tresses flickered as powered surged through the old brownstone. His lips drunk in her neck, the curve of her body weltered against his as if they were fountain and ink. Roughened hands pinned her arms to the plastered surface as his lips crashed into hers like a ship reaching the rocks instead of the lighthouse.

El pushed back at her husband scelerous surface, she had greater need of him. Her blue eyes twinkled with integrity of desideratum as she worked their bodies backwards until Peter slid supine on the turned down bed. Her body scansorial of his mountain. Soon his wife fit her valley into his peak with only cotton as their barriers to flow waterfall into river. He slid both hands along her ribcage helping to draw the abatis of her blouse up her arms, and slowly over her head, her hair cascading around them both as she reached down to kiss him.

His calloused fingertips dug deep into the dips of her hipbones, he needed to feel her against him. El’s breath set a ragged pace with the rain fustigating at the window in the corner. His cracked lips found hers at the same time he fluidly turned them so that he was atop her. She gasped and giggled in awe of his long since used parlor trick. He smiled the smile only a well-known lover could offer. So easy to please was the lady in waiting.

He let out of soft huff of air while leaning down and slowly pressing his calloused lips to her exposed stomach. She whispered out her mussitations. The husband moved his tongue length of her undraped surface. Her searching hands found his shoulders, her nails dug in to the skin, clutching to the warmth of the man she loved. 

Peter wanted her wanted her like a submarine wanted never exceed depth. Perfervid hands drove across her abdomen as they reached for the button on her jeans. The metal piece flew off into the room beyond. The snick of her zipper sliding down broke through the brief hush of the bedroom. She drew in a rushed breath as his hands found the little bow on her panties. 

A small exiguous groan escaped his lips as his hands struggled to remove her britches. Her giggles were contagious as he wriggled the offensive material; eventually he dropped his arms in momentary defeat. Her jeans were half way to her knees. ‘Bless me,’ he thought as he saw the lace along the edges of the oh so flimsy in comparison barrier to nirvana.

With a mighty pull he managed to bring them to her calves and then blessedly off her entirely. He flung the pernicious pants far off into the abyss. She laughed as she reached for his belt buckle in an effort to return the divesting favor. The rustle of the cincture through its loops was like a shotgun strike to the air, heralding the start of a long night.

She turned the tables rolling him onto his back. Her teeth found his button and then his zipper. His ansate was straining at the coarse material trapping him. Her hands replaced her pearls as she inched the folds back. She reached for his pants tugging them over the curve of his bum. 

His mouth arcuated into a teasing smile as he watched labor at the impediment to their main event. Methodically she inched the water heavy fabric down his thighs, stopping to kiss first the right thigh, then the left, her hair tickling at the exposed skin. Eventually progressing the pants to below his knees and finally off his ankles in rough tug. 

The wife landed on her backside with a haughty laugh. She balled his iniquitous work pants and threw them far as she could into the night. With a husky chuckle at their again flip-flopped positions she pulled at his shoulders bringing him down to her. He let his whispered breath tickle at her ear. Ghosting his lips down her neck, sparging kisses along her collarbone as she quivered beneath him. Leaning back for a second he admired the sheen of sweat covering her skin, coruscant flush emblazing the canvas.

She hooked one leg around him, then the other, slowly as if there were a prize for delaying the victory. El raked her nails through his untidy brownish locks. Her head rolled to the side as he found way to massage all her hidden parts. The husband took the opportunity to suck the skin she so generously proffered. Her brain short-circuited as she moaned in time with the thunder rolling outside.

Peter bit down slightly into her flesh and she bucked against his kneading touch. His hands tugged at her cotton blockade. He felt her blue eyes on him. She licked the palm of her hand then ran it down his stomach beneath the elastic of his muted blue boxers. He saw the aurora borealis.

Wind rattled the walls at 106 Cambridge Place. Windows creaked like unoiled carriage wheels. Thunder lent her music to the couple as the house moved with a ferocity that caused the ground to shift underneath them. The moment settled, hovering between them. Sound stopped and movement stopped.

Hours later the husband observed his hon’s unfettered carriage from his planate position on his side of the frowzy palate. His knees lay together as if in sideways prayer. He smiled a satisfied smile there had been a great many calls to God tonight.

Peter’s view master took in her rounded body resting against the butterscotch and thyme colored sheets. The air from the fan she always had on her side table found its way through the air teasing strands of her hair from her cheek in an oddly frenetic dance. Her eyes were watching something far across the room. 

Slender petal pink nails absent-mindedly traced a figure eight atop his exposed thigh. His stomach turned over as if a bowling pin took it down in one strike. He wondered if she knew she was drawing that symbol? He curled his lips inward to stifle his growing need to cackle like a rooster on fair day.

Earlier Peter had tractably scribed the infinity glyph with his aspirated fingers on her spasming abdomen as fractured moonlight crossed through the window in the enceinte that surrounded them. Her claws had raked at his shoulders as if gripping a life raft. Infinity. The man loved her to infinity and what lay beyond.

The sated husband continued to watch his lissome lady lay in obmutescent sentry, she was utterly ungrit, it was the first since before his stay at the Met he could remember there not being tension in her body. The body that just hours previous he had gripped on to while riding her like a wild mustang out for its virgin run.

His eyes dipped to the curve of her beautiful round cheeks. Remembering the shimmied reverberations of the feather light taps he gave that malacodermous mountainside. He smiled to himself, the smooth skin a front him glowed rose at his handiwork. It had been his undoing. The growl that escaped his body had been that of a feral wild animal. Smart woman that she was El had sensed his estrus and boldly without any reservation inched backwards in an effort to henotic their bodies.

He felt a tightening in his nircine homunculus, his somethin, somethin. He closed his eyes in an effort to replay the memory of her crying out like a banshee unleashed. His windows pooped open. She was still looping the eights on his thigh, her mussed hair tickling at his chest.

“Thank you hon.” He whispered into the hushed room. The wife looked him at her husband with bright blue eyes shining like a lighthouse in a storm. She smiled a smile born of years spent knowing the inside and outside of someone. 

“I love you.” El stated simply. He reached down and kissed her gently on her still swollen and bruised lips.

For a long time the duo lay ensconced in each other’s arms. The safest place they both knew. Eventually the brave lady broke through the comfortable silence. “I am sorry hon.” A lone tear tracked its path down her cheek. 

“I know. I know you are. I am sorry I didn’t know how to process what was happening inside me and in turn I took it out on you,” Peter returned.

El brought her gaze upwards looking into his wood colored eyes, “you had every right too. I, me, your wife, your hon…” her throaty voice broke on the hon. Peter reached down and stroked the water away from her leaking faucet, he went to interject with comfort, she held up her finger, their private code to let the other finish.

“I am the one who went and begged Neal to do whatever he had too.” The wife measured out the words as if the recipe only allowed for that exact amount. Peter absently rubbed his thumb on her cheek. “I told him to do whatever he had too, he didn’t just make that decision on his own.” She huffed out in a rush wanting her husband to understand.

Peter continued his physical ministrations of his wife’s person without comment knowing that once she got started her train would be on the track a while. “Prison changed you hon. It changed you. It changed me. It changed us. I know you were placed in solitary confinement in an effort to protect you from the violent repercussions of being law enforcement trapped inside possibly with the convicts you sent there in the first place.”

His thumb jumped a little from the steady path it had been running patrol on. He had sent Neal to that place, well no. He had sent Neal to Sing Sing Correctional, which was a maximum-security prison. He could only imagine the horrors he sent the young man too. Knowing what he knew now about the real goings on in the inside of a correctional facility. 

Her voice continuing broke through his musing, “I won’t pretend it doesn’t hurt that you won’t share with me. That you shunned me, that you…” Again her voice gave out as she tried to share with her love what lay inside her third heart. The husband reached down and kissed his wife, not to silence her, to explain the anguish in his third heart at the poor decision he made in shunning her.

Peter remained silent knowing she needed to let the words out; she needed to say what was trapped behind the steal doors of her soul. Even if it was each word served to take his apart his heart bit by little bit like pieces of falling confetti. “That you looked at me as if I were the reason you were in pain. I won’t pretend it doesn’t hurt, because you were right. I am the reason you were in pain.”

His head turned slightly drinking in the sight of her shaking lips, her free flowing tears his thumb had no chance in damming. He slid his hands down her naked hip bringing his fingers to cup her into him. He laid his chin atop her head. His matching tears were enough to know they were on the road to healing.

November 21, 2013, FBI White Collar, 8:03AM

Peter had made it the entire elevator ride without pulling at his tie. There had been one shaky hand raise that he let hover in the air like a feather before floating it back down to rest at his side. As the ASAC stepped out of the federal etui and looked in through the glass doors, he smiled a small smile at the personal victory.

He eyes focused their lenses on the unoccupied desk to the right of the windows. Socrates must be lonely he mused. He was lonely he amended. He missed Neal. He knew El to be sage in her words last night. Neal had chosen the rash option of the recording because the deciding day was near and he couldn’t turn down El begging for assistance.

Neal might not have wanted Peter in prison, but he knew the CI respected that Peter needed to deal with the incarceration his way. The way of letting the system work how it was supposed too. Only it hadn’t worked out that way. The system he placed all Credendum in had failed him. Failed him miserably and with a grit of his back teeth he acknowledged continue to fail him still.

Peter’s response, to fail Neal in a way that was not mendable, there was no glue to fit the broken pieces of their bond back together. There were no magic say them and all is forgiven words. In the end it wasn’t Neal who previcated to Peter damaging their relationship beyond repair. It was Peter who brought that conclusion about.

After his long into the night conversation with Mozzie, an interlocution where he laid most all bare to the little man he would not have expected to be his confessor, Peter landed on what in his mind was a way to balance the scales. The Dentist of Detroit thought him a bit extreme in his choice of olive branch but esteemed his decision enough to opine assistance in the suits quest. Now as for how to broach Neal while maintaining that which they all needed to maintain, the stage?

Peter went about his morning ablutions. Including the all-important government issued coffee he poured into his decidedly not government issued Worlds Best ASAC cup. A mug that lay in banishment at the back of his drawer for the better part of last month. As he sipped at one cup, two cup, three, the federal man filled out stacks of mind numbingly boring paperwork, signed countless number of much needed for bureaucracy forms. 

The Worlds Best ASAC at least according to the painted surface of the coffee holder paused in there somewhere to inhale the deviled ham sandwich his wife had made him this morning before heading back to bed. Finally he listened to Jones new theory (that had to have come by way of their missing team member) on what the thieves were after in their latest White Collar Case.

The clock eventually read 4:31PM, the leader of the Band of Brothers on the 51st bid everyone an early night, and to head home before the forthcoming storm turned them all into stranded members locked in the building overnight. The office inhabitants beat feet without delay. Clinton staying only long enough to question if there was anything else Peter needed. He did not the senior agent informed the junior. He did however want to apprise him of the fact that he would not be in the office the following day and would only be reachable if the need was dire, life and death dire.

The former Navy man nodded in understanding (their present case would not turn life and death dire,) wished him good night and thus good weekend and joined the last of the exiting staff on their sojourn down the elevator. Peter gathered his personal effects, making sure to rinse out his coffee mug returning it to its secret resting place.

4:52PM his watch showed as he called the freight elevator that would eventually take him to the subterranean destination. The upstate native again succeeded in not pulling at his neckwear. Though he suspected it was because he was gripping his briefcase so tight his hands had not the time to pull off such a feat of sartorial disruption.

November 21, 2013, FBI Evidence Storage, (Cold Case Counter), 4:55PM

Ms. Carney watched as the man took exit from the traveling box. His hand so tight about the leather satchel it had lost all color. ‘Oh to hell in a one handled hand basket’ she thought. It’s so hard to forget pain, but it’s even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace. The words that lay in the pages of Chuck Palahniuk book Diary flitted through her mind.

It was hard to oblivescene pain most especially the laceration made to your heart. Scars atop your skin healed over, cicatrix of the heart stood silent sentry with you always. The man before her was rolling in the fields of pain. However would the fences that lay between the Agent and the CI mend? If the sweater attired woman thought it to make a difference she would have provided glue and paste or hammer and ax. Whether it needed to be torn down or rebuilt or both was for the men to decide.

“ASAC Burke, how may I be of service to you this fine evening so close to closing time?” The clerk offered in way of warning Neal that the tablinum had a visitor and the senior agent it was neigh on closing time. 

“Grace, I do apologize for the tardiness of my visit.” The reason for his visit exited his office grey wool Stetson Ambassador in hand. 

“Agent Burke. How may I be of service to you?” The raven haired man knew the only reason the agent would broach the cupboard under the stairs so late was to have an audience with his criminal informant. 

“Neal.” The fifty year old turned to look into those blue eyes. How had he ever thought he was the life preserver? 

Neal took in the man’s face. This not the man, not Agent Burke, it was Peter. Peter. “Yes?” He answered with a hitch in his voice, matching the direct eye contact with greater ease. 

“I wanted to let you know I will be headed out of town tomorrow.” The observer ran his eyes the length of the lawman’s body; somehow the hat holder knew it wasn’t for an early family celebration of the forthcoming holiday.

The lady watched the tete a tete with trepidatious fascination. It was like watching a word only tango. She purposely took her time in shutting things down; held back from gathering her belongs, made sure to straighten the files, store the pens and highlighters. Ms. Carney wanted to allow them the option of taking the ride together, to allow for whatever privacy the senior agent needed to say whatever it was he needed to say.

Neal must have sensed the desired boys only ride as well. His fear at what came next stamped down into the ether of his being. The young man turned to the woman who shared her matrix of galleries with him. “Ms. Carney thank you for the repast of beef stew and cheesed bread.” 

His blue eyes worked to find the center of her brown, “thank you and good-bye.” It was not lost on her, his use of good-bye instead of his normal offered good evening. 

“Ní i bpíosaí.” (Not it pieces.) She returned with simple grace that lived up to her name. 

He swallowed at the peace offering and responded in-kind, “ní i bpíosaí.” (Not it pieces.)

Peter listened to the foreign language exchange wondering what in the heck they just said to each other. Whatever it was served to reduce the ticking vain in the young man’s neck and settle his jumping about eyes. The White Collar ASAC nodded his most sincere thanks to the lady behind the counter.

The fifty year old waited until they were safely ensconced in the elevator. Though the fact he thought an elevator was safe momentarily made him question his sanity. He still didn’t know what he was going to say. Neal waited with practiced patience for him to begin.

The dealer pulled a card from Mozzie’s deck of cards. “Out beyond idea of wrongdoing and right doing there is a field.” The alabaster face drained of all color at the start of the Rumi quote. A field. He didn’t know how he knew that Peter knew of that long ago night but he did.

Neal raised his wrists to the lawman in aphonic deference. Peter’s Adams apple bobbed at the grace with which the CI accepted that which he thought to be his fate. He clearly his throat of the sudden rocks that found their way inside. Peter lifted his hand atop the extended wrists, “When the souls lies down in that grass the world is too full to talk about.” The older man gently pushed the hands down and inclined his head in the barest nods of no.

The younger man kept his wrist clasped together in supplication. Peter shook his head more fervently no. Neal kept them there. “No.” He stated, “no.” Their taciturn tango took another step round the artophorion dance floor.

Peter took a sang-froid breath before continuing on his verbal quest, “I’ll be back on Monday.” Neal continued his silent campaign of extended wrists, his eyes unwavering in their straightforward gaze. Really the agent imagined it was Danny staring at the law come to take him in. 

“Its what I deserve Peter.” Peter cinched his lower lip in use of his given name so long since he heard pass the others lips.

“Ní i bpíosaí.” (Not it pieces.) The non-Irish speaker stated. Whatever it meant when she said to the man across from him, it brought him peace. Peter hoped in saying it he would offer the same alms. 

Neal looked him in the eye his quiddity on full display. “Do you know what that means Peter?” Peter startled upon hearing his name again. 

“No. When Grace…” 

“Grainne,” (Grace) the Irish speaker corrected him. Neal didn’t even know why it was important but in that moment it was. 

Peter amended his statement, “when Grainne (Grace) said it to you, your nuts didn’t look as if they would stay tucked for the winter.” Ms. Carney understood pain in way most others didn’t. She was offering peace they both had been denied.

“Get out of my sight, you make me sick.” The much earlier in the month spit out phrase rang in his coal colored head on repeat. 

“It means not in pieces Agent Burke.” The Agents head bowed, he found that his neck was just not able to support the weight. He was back to being Agent Burke. 

The conveyance dinged informing them of their completed ascent to the lobby destination. Each occupant was reluctant to exit, each for vastly different reasons. “Neal, please.” 

The DC native cut him off a little of his former fire raging forth, “please what?” Breathe. In through the nose, hold for eight, out through the mouth, hold for eight. Neal aggregated his speech release, “please what?” 

“Please…” The older man’s voice tapered off like a church candle at the end of its wick. He wasn’t even sure what he was asking. Suddenly the ringing was tintibulating in his ears, his vision was blackening at the edges, and he couldn’t breathe. The former inhabitant of the Met was in desperate need of air.

He sprinted out of the asphyxiating coffin; zoomed past the metal detectors finally out into the fierceness of the biting wind. Air he could feel the punches of the wind making way to his lungs. The younger man followed him at a clipped pace. “Breathe Peter, breathe.” The blue eyes skittering across his face were full of worry; he knew well the effects of a panic attack. 

Peter examined the physiognomy afront him, somewhere in there was his friend, his friend with the largest heart he beat like a piñata until tore at the sides and broke at the center, leaving nothing but scattered pieces of heart in the wind. 

“Breathe Neal, Breathe.” The friend returned the sentiment. Neal’s swallow was audible above the air rustling past in angered fury of a storm set to rage two nights in succession. This wasn’t the first night the CI had stood in the raging wind that wound its way through clothing to shake bones and rattling them where they stood. 

“It isn’t in a field Peter.” Peter fingered the coin in his pocket, a silly little gift from the memory teller. They had to get out of view of the building. Their continued presence at the doors, under view of the security cameras or what ever eyes still lay in the building might take chance to see them was dangerous in the extreme.

Still he could not and would not leave their discourse at “it isn’t in a field.” Neal had just confirmed to him what he already knew, a body lay somewhere in Missouri, a body that a scourged young man provided a final rest too. 

“Neal walk with me please.” Peter headed down the street far away from any manner of prying eyes. The Devore lover walked beside him. 

Upon reaching the safety of a darkened tree lined path Danny Boy continued with a slight lilt here to unheard in his voice, “two roads diverged in a wood.” The reteller’s breath furled around him as if a ghost fading into the mist. 

“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood. Long I stood and looked down one as far as I could to where it bent in the undergrowth.” The listener watched in veneration as Neal talked on, “I doubted if I would ever come back. Somewhere ages and ages hence. Two roads diverged in a wood… and I took…” The unmitigated opporiumbim in the emotion heavy voice lanced like the tip of spear straight to the center of Peter’s gut.

Blue eyes locked on brown, “Age-.” The Irishman amended the address, “Peter.” Somehow Peter knew this was that moment, the moment after which nothing was the same. “Travelers believe in sacramental as well as traditional rights. They are to be symbolic as well as ritual in condition. Sacraments are signs specifically instituted to be channels of grace. We…” The fifty year old heard the emphasis on we. The younger man had included himself among the Travelers. 

“…We have a heightened appreciation of symbolic action. Wrongdoing is judged in terms of external action, sin is seen in behavioral wrongdoing and expatiation of wrongdoing is sought in ritual purification.” 

Before he even knew he was speaking Peter almost yelled, “That was not purification Neal, that was a beating, more than a beating, that was…” The older man found his lexicon failing in adequate description.

Neal took in the Agents calvary over his ‘beating.’ “Niall.” (Neal.) His lilt returned for the single word. “When family passes you return them to the earth. I lay my knees to the dirt, and washed my face with it. Sharing my blood with his blood.” Peter’s face contorted in anguish at the thought of that fifteen years old face a partnership of blood and dust.

“Muni-got-in to. (Good Bye.) That was the last thing I said to the ground,” the Traveler informed the Buffer. 

“That sounds like a different language than you spoke earlier.“ The Buffer stated in hopes of exegesis. 

“It is in a way. It Cant or Shelta. Its dialectic specific to Travelers.” 

“What does it mean?” Peter was afraid to hear the answer. 

“It means good bye.” The gravedigger rubbed his hands over his face as he did that night with the dirt. “It means goodbye.” He reiterated his hands having found themselves clasped in prayer pose. 

“Goodbye?” Peter stated. Was Neal was saying good-bye to him his balls dropped at the thought. 

“I suppose I should have said a prayer, or intoned a chant or proffered ritual that showed honor and reverence for the dead.” The older man reached a hand out halting it inches from the younger. “Goodbye was all I had in me. I was barely standing, my face was broken, my ribs shattered, my...” Suddenly, maybe for the first time ever in his acquaintance with Neal the young man looked embarrassed “…junk engorged.”

Peter gently slid his hand onto Neal’s jacket. In solidarity or comfort he wasn’t sure. All he knew was he wanted to offer tangible support. “My back wasn’t working right, my legs could barely sustain my weight. And I knew I would never return to the place I had called home for some many years again.”

The history teller paused to collect himself before continuing, “home being a dwelling not the essence of the word.” Those words hammered nails in the shores of Peter’s soul. This was the real Neal. Not the confidence man, not the actor on a stage, not the friend that would march beside you into hell, this was Neal, raw and unvarnished.

“I know we have a special project to complete Agent Burke.” Just like that he went from Peter to Agent Burke, his CI was ameliorating for the Agents benefit. “ I want you to know, I will complete it. I will not run.” The lawman knew this to be true. Neal would complete the job. He wouldn’t run. That was in the past. “I’m a criminal, I have as you heard always been a criminal. If you can’t see fit to hold this thread that binds us for this job together now that you know the extent of my evil.” His prayer hands lifted up in the air, “I would rather you arrest me now.”

Peter coughed out a strangled, “I would never…” Knowing he already had. The lawman so abruptly halted in his speech that it was Neal’s then to reach out the hand. 

Before Peter could talk on Neal did, “I’m tired of traveling the road most taken. I want to taken the road less taken. I want it to make a difference. I will finish that which you have asked of me. Then I will turn myself in.” He took a steadying breath before addending, “To you or which ever authority you deem appropriate for the situation.” 

“Is goodbye all you have now?” The finality of the word heralded like a gunshot in the night. There was no Cowboy Up in this Peter, his book was open, and his pages on display for the coal head to read. Was goodbye all he had? Neal smiled at Peter, the first real smile he had seen since God only knew when. 

“Slum dorahōg Srīntul.” (Good evening my friend.) The lawman tilted his head in way of intoning for elucidation. The brown-eyed man was not disappointed in fact he was humbled to his core, “good evening my friend.”

Wind rusticated round the men in the embrowerment of trees, the chorus of raindrops found way to their coats, lighten imbrued the sky. Peter swallowed a mouth full of welcoming wind. The yawning gulf between hope and peace spurred him on to request one additional alms of Neal. “Neal.” Before the trench coated man could even lend voice to his interpellation. 

Neal riposted, “getʹa al Grītus.” (I forgive you Peter.) The tone change on Grītus told Peter somehow that funny sounding word was his name. “Getʹa al.” (I forgive you.) The Traveler’s blue eyes sought out the Buffers brown. 

Peter bowed his head in obeisance. He splayed his hands open in deferential respect for the man who bestowed upon something neither thought possible the other. “Get’a al,” (I forgive you,) his constricted voice chorused, “Get’a al Neal, get’a al.” (I forgive you Neal, I forgive you.)

A/N: Just in Case…

Irish to English Translations Are As Follows:

Ní i bpíosaí = Be at peace

Grannie = Grace

Niall = Neal 

Shelta to English Translations Are As Follows:

Muni-got-in to = Good Bye 

Slum dorahōg Srīntul = Good evening my friend

Getʹa al Grītus = I forgive you Peter

Getʹa al = I forgive you

Get’a al Neal, get’a al =I forgive you Neal, I forgive you


	7. “There are moments in our lives that seem to define us.  Moments we keep going back to.  My life before him was so simple and decided.  And now after him… there’s just… After.”

NEW A/N: Top of the Day Readers! This is a little FYI for those of you who are already in progress with this story. Per a suggestion from an amazing and wonderful mentor I have made some stylistic edits to make the story (and it’s multiple languages) easier to read! 

“There are moments in our lives that seem to define us. Moments we keep going back to. My life before him was so simple and decided. And now after him… there’s just… After.”  
~ Anna Todd, After 

November 22, 2013, The Burke Residence, 5:04AM

The dusty blue Eagle Creek carry on luggage sat by the door in silent sentry waiting to be wheeled into action. The trusty dented and battle worn gray Yeti travel coffee cup was on the table filled with ‘the finest coffee for the finest man’ a mantle the man doubted he would ever truly be worthy of. The dark blue Brooks Brothers merino wool coat with its missing bottom button was folded neatly over the handle of the traveling duffle.

Before a conscious decision could be made Peter brought the ‘you can either be a Suit or Peter. You can’t be both’ envelope out one last time before the departure to the wilds of the Midwest. With a surprisingly steady hand the lawman fanned the contents of the ‘Photographic Essay on Danny Brooks’ out across the old wooden dining table, one by one by one faces joined the ranks of the disquisition of intertextual analysis. 

The voyeur’s stomach spasmed as he held the last one up at just enough of an angle his brown eyes could not lend view to the scene. His sack tried to cowboy up into his body, finally that body let out a flinch as if he were standing to close to the fireworks display. With desolate resolution Peter placed the final photo on the table, a small gash of the wooden surface framed the picture in a macabre piece of matting.

The blackened eyes with their icing on the cake bloodied tops, the lacerated cheeks with their rockened valleys and bouldered peaks, the carving on the forehead which he regrettably concluded was most likely the reason for that errant curl bounce that made the women (and some men) all weak in the knees, the slices through the square Adonis chin, the weltered lips so talented with relaying facts, figures and humorous delights. 

The face not unlike the Portrait of Paul Victor Grandhomme by Raphael Collin matted with all manner of blood splatter and things the wonderer didn’t want to contemplate. The singular pogrom of Neal was near to disemboweling to set eyes too. Though it wasn’t the carnage that made his stomach want to reject the recently sipped Ospina Dynasty Grand Reserve Coffee, it was the drought look of desolated pain, no a scarifying mix of dismal emptiness and the resolute understanding of ‘I deserve this. I DESERVE THIS’ in those dimmed out headlights that would haunt the New York native.

With suddenly unsteady fingers the FBI ASAC traced the lines of the teenagers face. Despite the churning tornado of stomach contents and a dangling member that had shriveled to prune status Peter knew he had to continue. He hadn’t been able to lay eyes on all that had been provided to him in that envelope with its reminder of Suit vs. Peter. At the very least he owed Neal the respect of looking at the history of how he came to be.

His tremulous digits let the image of Danny, Age 15 slip from his unintentionally tightened grasp. The table sitters brown eyes watched as the photo cascaded its way down the table finally stopping upon impact with a hand painted sugar bowl, a gift to his wife from the corporeal person in the image. Peter shook his head at the commentary of the partnership of the photo and contents of the rose covered ceramic crock. Neal deserved more sweetness in his life.

The lawman breathed in a deep and lowning breath and neigh on forced himself to taken in the other photographs. ALL the other photographs. The one sitting akimbo with the coffee enhancer (or detractor depending on your preference) was not the only one of a young boy soaked in ichor. There were many, many, many so many more. Never again would Peter tell someone to ‘cowboy up.’ This is what happened when you did.

The table owner put the photos the funny little guy in glasses provided him in chronological order. The portraits provided a well-beaten path of faces throughout Neal’s growing years. Commencing with Danny, Age 5 with a contumacious jut of that just squaring chin, defiance refulgent in his blazing blue eyes. Until the final one he had chance to view first. Danny, Age 15 held none of the adduce the little tykes had. The candle was wicked, the chin shattered, the contumacy gone. 

The law enforcement officer in him kept looking for a police report knowing there would not be one. He was surprised when the only information on a body came from a handwritten notepaper clipped to the inside flap of the envelope from his confessor and soon to be traveling partner. At first the reader thought it might be yet another complimentary to the situation quote from the eidetic man. It wasn’t. It simply said, ‘he killed a man that day.’ Peter went back to the photo of Danny, Age 15.

Neal, well Danny, had killed a man. If you could even call the monster that brought the words, “I was barely standing, my face was broken, my ribs shattered, my junk engorged, my back wasn’t working right, my legs could barely sustain my weight,” a man forth from his friend. Neal was his friend he acknowledged deep in the bowels of his gut. His friend and so very much more. There wasn’t a word in the dictionary to describe what they were and Peter found solace in that, in knowing they transcended description.

Why had Mozzie shared this information with him, the law? The lover of wrist kerchiefs who was distrustful of anything even remotely resembling authority or law enforcement or ‘the man’ had shared that their gentle, sensitive, abhors violence (clearly there was sufficient reason) empathetic Neal had killed someone. Peter refused to call the person who did this a man. He didn’t know what the measure of a man was. The New York native only knew that person rotting in the Missouri field was not one. 

Peter looked about the myriad of materials affront him. If the be speckled man had spared him information on young Danny, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He wasn’t certain he could process more. Was there more to know? Yes, he was certain the ‘Photographic Essay on Danny Brooks’ didn’t even begin to supply edification to the History of Danny Brooks. Heavy was the head that lumbered atop his shoulders. What right did he have to learn more about the hidden stops on the autobahn of the lover of funny hats and little chickens? 

How had the boy behind that face in Danny, Age 15 found the ability to rebuild the flindered imbruted staves of his soul to become a man with such unfailing conviction in the practice of unconditional love? How could he step up into battle charge head first into Hell to perpetrate a rescue with rejection of his Dogma a possibility, almost a certainty? This the rescuee concluded was the measure of a man.

Peter’s body shook with slivers of opporiumbim and punches of self-flagellation. Neal knowing how it would turn out in the end, knowing his would be subject to the castigation of Peters insensate will when it came to all things FBI and his unflinching line of right and wrong had still saved him. Saved him from that fate of prison. From the fate of what happens when all you hold dear in the world profligates you. ‘The finest man…’ That was something he would never be.

The softest knock the front door ever heard announced the time had come to travel the skies so gray with the man who the door owner found to be both a true friend and a sagacious confidant. Peter carded the photographic Danny’s and returned them to their protective paper sheath. He folded the accompanying documents and with a sigh born of defeat and tinged with despair placed them behind the images that would permeate his phantasmagoria.

With leaden arms he sleeved his wool coat, with folded claws he grabbed his luggage and the finest coffee for the unfinest man and with the abrupt finality of the before and the after closed the door. His tree trunk colored skittering eyes searched for a lighthouse in his personal storm, only to find the solidness of the door at the top of the stairs, his booted foot hovered above half in flight.

Mozzie took in the person before him. He knew the significance of that moment in time where you could look back and say there was before and there was after. It was a hard landing of realization of what you had done and what you had failed to do.

With comforting glove adorned fingers he sought out the coated arm in front of him, “I knew in that moment that things would be forever different. That today was going to be the day that split my life into before and after, Morgan Matson, Second Chance Summer.” 

Peter nodded at the man in his funny little sideways earmuffs, his voice to hoarse to speak at the absolute efficacy the words provided at the feelings raging about that cold Friday morning.

November 22, 2013, FBI Evidence Storage, (Cold Case Counter), 7:15AM

To say that that Ms. Carney was startled to find a somber yet physical Mr. Caffrey awaiting her arrival at such an early morning entrance was an understatement on par with saying the man before was only just passably good looking. The Irishman’s words last night were as unfaltering staunch as they were final, “thank you and good-bye.” 

Her brown eyes with a powerful engine of empathy rumbling forth took in the blue eyes normally so coruscant with life, so filled with humor and bedevilment. Today those windows were rimmed with red and the very picture (she planned to look it up in Webster’s) of emotionally insanguinated. “Good morning Mr. Caffrey.” 

He ghosted what might be considered a smile her way. “Good morning Ms. Carney.”

The records clerk unlocked and pushed up the metal barrier between the counter and the outside world or government vestibule as it were, careful to watch for the eye twitch of a shutter the man gave anytime the bars moved up and down. The White Collar CI walked the walk of the damned to his office. His long fingers robotically opening the door, working about the task of setting his hat on the rack, before he could divest himself of his vintage Jon York overcoat he could faintly discern a presence behind him.

With measured movements as if he were too steady on his feet, to focused in the way he held his physicality the thief turned around. Aphonic grace and the over saturation of pugilist training was low key highlighted in the simple spin. Brown eyes assessed the finely sculpted body across her from head to toe. Mr. Caffrey had made this turn before. 

“Ms. Carney?” His indurated delivery broke the lady out of her reverie of times long past. 

This she mused was a man who needed a Teddy Bear or a Hug or something… What that something was she wasn’t quite sure off. Grace didn’t think he would respond so well to any such displays of affection so she purposed an alternative.

“Mr. Caffrey, I came in early to store the boxes arrived from Kidnappings and Missing Persons. Once retrieved from the elevator and partnered with my desk for logging and entry, I had plans for a sojourn to Bluestone. Would you care to join me on my early morning quest for coffee? I would of course pay you handsomely in Italian Roast and a secret delicacy hidden in my bag for the pleasure of your company.” With a wiggle of her eyebrows the baker held up a brown bag with the word “SECRET” scribed across the front in red block letters.

The listener was keen to her way of thinking; he might need some fresh air, nectar of the Gods and a bit of time to zero in on some composure. She was offering him a chance to do this was his dignity intact and the prospect of one of her extraordinary baked goods. 

“Who am I to turn down an invitation from a beautiful lady?” 

As she was exiting the doorway he heard her say, “If your insurance covers it, you might make an appointment with an ophthalmologist.” Neal knew he had struck a nerve with his comment. Had he insulted her? He didn’t like the thought of having aggrieved the lady in black. She had been nothing but kind to him. 

Brad Meltzer’s words echoed in his heart, “Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be Kind. Always.” Ms. Carney was kind. Always. He sought to return the favor. With practiced skill and ease he rescued his hat and made way to the elevator. Before the records maven could secure the next round of boxes he moved them with ease to her side table.

“Thank you Mr. Caffrey for you lending your big strong muscly arms to aid in the arduous task of box moving. Due to such a display of strength I shall upgrade your coffee to large.” Neal’s smile this time was true not just the essence of. His strong muscly arm held the conveyance door open for his traveling companion to join him on the ride to the outside. They stood shoulder to shoulder in comfortable silence. The lady wondered about the previous nights ride he had taken with ASAC Burke. His business was his own to keep; it was not her place to pry.

As the coffee hunting duo stepped out into the morning sun peaking through a smattering of clouds the gentleman’s phone rang. He made no move to answer it or even retrieve it from his coat pocket he just held open his arm in an open gesture for the lady to join him on the stroll.

Along about the fifth time it rang Ms. Carney inquired as to whether N. Caffrey would like his secretary to answer, Neal blindly reached for the screaming electronic device. Was it her imagination or did the volume increase with every ring?

“Good Morning you have reached the office of N. Caffrey, how may I be of service today?” Neal’s lips alighted into a smirk his eyes dancing the barest of waltz of amusement at her official sounding greeting. “Yes ma’am. Yes ma’am. I will pass the message along to him posthaste. Is there anything additional you wish to me to add ma’am?”

Ma’am? Who in the world could it be? Not many ma’ams have had that number. If it had been Diana the Federal Servant would have just handed the phone over knowing a call from an Agent was tantamount to a morning in repose. 

That left a small list, June who was at the present in hiding. Alex who was who only knows where. Elizabeth, who did not seem likely at all, in fact he doubted very much if he would ever have chance to speak with her again. Which left by default Sara a mixture of the previous three. 

He waited with uncaring breath to find out who it was that required what from him. The Devore lover tapped his fingers against his wool coat as he waited with disinterest for his Girl Friday to disconnect the call. “Yes ma’am. I understand ma’am. Have a pleasant day under the circumstances.” Long pause. “Yes ma’am I will add that to the message.” 

His secretary’s eyes were closed so he had no way of observing what she was thinking. “Yes ma’am. Good bye.” Neal watched as she clicked end and then handed him the phone back. He placed the now silenced contraption back in the warmth of the pocket as if nothing had occurred. His narrow fingers moved from his thigh to the metal handle of the door to the coffee shop, allowing the lady to enter first. 

The secretary made no move to provide the door holder his message. He found he couldn’t summon the energy to care. They ordered their coffees. A large spiced chai latte for her, a large Italian Roast with a splash of cream and a dash of sugar. Their return to the Federal Building was at a meandering pace, with frequent stops as the art lover explained the origins of the statues they past by with detail and humorous antidotes. 

As they alighted into their warmed rooms they took of their respective winter armaments, animating into their normal office attires, finely tailored suit for the gentlemen, black on black with an oversized sweater for her. As Neal was settling in the lady brought in his “SECRET” bag, setting it down next to his rock. He often wondered the story behind his little gray friend; he thought to leave it a mystery. Hopefully in time, the history of the scree would reveal itself. 

Attached to the bag emanating the most intoxicating scents was a pink memo slip informing him of a missed call. Caller: Sara Ellis Business: Sterling Bosh Time: 7:27 AM Day: 11/22 Memo: Please call Ms. Ellis at Sterling Bosh at your earliest convenience. She has requested your assistance on an URGENT matter. Urgent he noted was bolded, underlined 5 times highlighted and boxed in red pen. With some reluctance he also noted the sentence after matter. “You owe me Caffrey and I am collecting.”

The former lover wondered what it was the strawberry blond required so urgently and why she felt the need to offer such a crass reminder. He opened the bag to find Ms. Carney’s moistened soda bread. The chewer savored each and ever single bite and any crumbs he chanced to find. The coffee drinker finished his cup of Italian Roast with its splash and its dash, he placed the large now empty cup it in the recycle bin. The CI absently went through the reports he would bring up today to his upstairs outbox. Then set about putting his mental notes in order for Agent Jones.

Still the monochromatically attired man made no move to return the lady’s call. The former Missouri inhabitant supposed he should. Sara had been good to him; she had done him a solid, many solids actually. He had purposed to her and on some level it hadn’t been a con. Those words atop the Empire States Building had been from his heart and true. Though in the past months he had come to realize Sara didn’t know him or love him. She liked him sure and maybe even loved the idea of him. But know him and love him. No. He wasn’t worth the love he shared with others.

The man in the Devore with its simple yet expertly cut lines exited his office; upon his trip to the freight elevator (that he noted early smelled strangely of nothing) he stopped to thank the baker for her early morning culinary delight. The coal head extolled the virtues of the soda bread, gave appreciation for the early morning stroll and the coffee the lady had upgraded to a large. 

Ms. Carney provided auscultation with a feigned smile, the most dissatisfactory lip turn he had ever had chance to set eyes upon. When he had concluded his long-winded oration she breathed a sigh of relief and said with no small amount of insistence, “please call Ms. Ellis back. She seemed a few hop scotches past stressed.”

He had delayed the task as long as he could. With reticent hand the former lover pulled his phone out and hit redial to the last number. His dancers feet dragged their toes towards the shaking box that would bring him to the 51st floor. “Caffrey! What does a girl have to do to get a return call?” 

His tired eyes sought respite of the lights from inside their lids, “Good Morning Sara. What is it that I can do for you?” The third party listener could hear no more of the exchange as the elevator doors closed with a clang.

Some many hours passed before her part time office mate rejoined her. The elevator notated his decent with its Hollywood should record them for a horror movie grimaces and groans. When the White Collar CI exited he looked a hearty mixture of ready for war and ready for bed, not a crossing of the twains either. The lady behind the counter offered a small smile as headed with barely a returned lip turn straight into the office marked N. Caffrey.

A few minutes later she heard the one side of a conversation ground out with fatigued breath, “Sara. I looked into it. They are rather diabolical and maybe a little impressive.” Medium sized pause the kind where air hung in animated suspension. 

“It’s just me. Moz isn’t here.” Smaller pause. (Who is Moz? The listener wondered.) “No just gone.” Smaller pause yet. The rejoinder to whatever had been asked was slightly haughty and a fair bit annoyed, “he is allowed to keep his own schedule Sara. Who am I to question him if says he has a secret assassination for the weekend?” 

Longer break, the air suddenly heavy with the weight of Damocles ready to fall. “We need a third person.” Smallest break. “No.” Finite break. “No.” Exhalation of breath before continuing break. “Sara. We don’t have a third person.” Sigh of the anathematized, “Give me some time. I will figure out a plan.”

When the man went in search of the lady he found she was not at her desk, in fact the metal prison gate was down he dampened down a shutter at the thought of literally being behind bars. The searcher found the missing person in the break room. She was mixing something into the cornflower blue bowls normally housed on the second shelf. That something she was mixing smelled amazing. Neal imagined Ms. Carney could make toast into a five star meal.

His thrice broken nose inhaled the aroma of carrots, potatoes, onions, a myriad of spices only she would ever know, pork and what was that, he sniffed in deeper the smells meandering through his ole factory channels, lemon? The man in the black suit and tie sans tiepin was not disappointed to find there were two bowls on the counter before her.

“Mr. Caffrey, would you care for a repast?” 

He grinned from one unmarred ear to one cicatrized ear, “Ms. Carney you never have to ask if I would care for it. If you make it, the answer will always, always be yes.” 

With a matching grin the cook placed the bright blue bowl down in front of him, a sweet roll accompanied the offering on a folded butter yellow cloth napkin and the best apple cider that ever had chance to pass his often fantasied about lips joined the meal in a glass matching the soup porringer. The subterraneans ate in companionable silence. Neither felt the need to fill the void with mindless chatter nor laden words. 

Post meal and clean up Grace smiled at her office mate. Upon their exit on the way out of their little break, kitchen, sundries storage three way hybrid room the lady inform him there was more cider in the old brown always rattling icebox in the corner. And if he had need of more sweet rolls they were in the rounded Tupperware that sat atop the old cracked governmental gray Formica counter.

The downstairs duo went back to their respective tasks for the remainder of workday. Occasionally the hum of one or another office equipment broke the silence, other wise the air around them was quiet and still. Neal worked out a number of options for Sara’s dilemma that would not involve a third party they were sadly without. 

Long legs paced a short stride in the diminutive space mark N. Caffrey. Was he even in possession of his facilities? Would his reactions be fast enough in the moment to lend assistance to his former flame? What were the ramifications if he were not able to provide that which was needed to complete the task before him? Neal knew he had to succeed. Time and time again Sara had been there for him.

The walking Rodin was still pacing when Ms. Carney knocked, “Mr. Caffrey it is 5:00PM. Do you have continued need of your flight path for a longer take off?” 

Neal turned around with a raised eyebrow at her humorous plane analogy, “No. Thank you Ms. Carney, my plane is ready for take off.” Her eyebrow matched his as the man continued “I shall join you presently.” Her exit was as taciturn as his rehatting and jacketing.

The slid of the bars continued to cause a visual reaction from the felon. Grace wondered if there would ever come a day the sights and sounds of the action didn’t bring forth such a visceral shutter. The winter weather armored duo rode the elevator for the second time that day. 

Neal felt as if he should address the previous day and he return. He knew Ms. Carney thought his “thank you and good-bye” a final statement at the end of their book. It turns out it was only the end of the chapter. Before he could lend words to the thoughts ping ponging around in his mind the lady now across from him did. 

“Ní i bpíosaí?” (Not in Pieces) She questioned. 

Neal found tongue heavy as he responded, “B'fhéidir i bpíosaí.” (Maybe not in pieces.) 

Her body softened its straightened back and made move to reach out a hand hovering slightly in the air before falling like a leaf to her side. The man noticed that the lady was chary not to ever physically touch him. 

“Tá gliú ann.” (There is glue.) Her offer touched him more than her hands ever could. 

Blue eyes broke contact from brown as they suddenly found the wall at her back with all its scars and scraps the most intoxicating of canvas, “rud ar bith níos láidre?” (Anything stronger?) He questioned the need for something stronger evident in his leaden delivery. 

“An greamaigh a chomhiomlánú le stroighin?” (Aggregate the paste with cement?) She didn’t disappoint in her increased offering. The sound box in the corner tintibulated as the cart reached the lobby-landing place. Neal went to answer her accrescent idea when he was halted in his quest by the exclamation. 

“Caffrey. You know I am not good at waiting.” Both Mr. Caffrey and Ms. Carney looked to the voice that echoed in the marbled entryway. 

Ms. Carney took in the statuesque strawberry blond with her well-manicured hand haughtily perched on her finely sculpted hip. As the below people moved passed the metal detectors into the vast expanse of the vestibule, the lady in waiting clicked her blue satin Manolo Blahnik along the marble in a steady to staccato to meet them. 

The Maxmara double-breasted camel haired teddy coat lay that over a Dolce and Gabbana mid length cocktail dress moved in time with the symphony of clicks. Her matching Cartier necklace and earrings complemented the blue that ran through her dress. This was a woman who commanded presence. The decidedly frumpier of the two ladies acknowledge with a slight glace at her thrift store coats whose label was missing. 

She turned to exit the federal building at 26 Federal Plaza with an “oíche mhaith” (good night) said low so only his ears could hear. He breathed a long yoga breath out of his lips. “Ádh mór” (Good luck) the lady added even lower. 

The departer’s progress was halted by a Christian Loubitin Satin Clutch that matched her shoes to perfection, “Hi Sara Ellis.” Her green eyed danced with mirth, “the secretary?” 

Neal was startled into action, feeling the prod of a hot poke in his toned behind, before he could offer words to dissuade further verbal inquisition from Sara. 

Ms. Carney surprised him, “Good Evening Ms. Ellis. I understood your matter was of some urgency, I did not know you required Mr. Caffrey to join you as James Bond, had you mentioned that in your message, I would have sent out for his Tom Ford Windsor Tuxedo. We like to keep at the cleaners ready to go.”

Sara arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow at the witty retort, “she’ll do.” 

Neal’s blue eyes burst like confetti at Marti Gras. “No. Sara. She will not do.” 

‘She’ watched for a second as the expertly dressed couple bickered back and forth as the ‘do or not do’ tarried on. Eventually she and her thrift store Doc Martens stepped around the cover of Vogue and GQ. The lady in her normal fair of black on black on black had just made the crosswalk clicker when two very beautiful people stepped up behind her. Her spin as graceful as shitkicker boots would allow. 

“Have you to come to some sort of accord? Will I do? Or won’t I?” Laughter danced about her brown eyes. 

Sara smiled and looped arms with the lady in black, “you will do.” As Sara guided the unremarkably dressed lady toward a waiting town car, she had the grace to ask, “I know you might have a previous engagement or plans you wish to carry out, would you instead be willing to help us with a project?”

“Ms. Ellis, my normal Friday night tete a tete is out of town, my plans only included the finishing of a quilt for the second hand store at the shelter.” Neal paused to ponder whom his office mate’s normal Friday night tete a tete might be, Tabby maybe? 

Ms. Carney he knew was a great many things stupid was not among them, “a con?” 

Neal swallowed this was a interpellation he needed to provide answer too, “No and for the record, I don’t want you to do this.” He looked at her straight in her utilitarian brown eyes. 

Her response as those eyes twinkled like the starlight soon to hang above her head, “an bhfuil sé contúirteach?” (Is it dangerous?) 

He nodded in the negative. It wouldn’t be dangerous more perfunctory than anything else. 

“Craic?” (Fun?) Her eyes continued to dance under the street light above her bun toped head. 

The DC native grit his perfectly straight teeth as she talked on, “ní droch-fhear tú. Tá a fhios agam go gceapann tú go bhfuil tú. Nach bhfuil tú. Anois, an féidir liom cabhrú? Nó an gcuirfidh mé bac?” (You are not a bad man. I know you think you are. You are not. Now, can I help? Or will I get in the way?)

Sara watched as her former flame polyglot to end all listened intently to a language completely foreign to her. Neal was not happy about this, but they had limited time and this was the most important information in the world to her. 

“Is droch-fhear mé.” (I am a bad man.) The resignation in his voice of a hard earned tittle made the other lady scrunch up her wind reddened cheeks. ‘Oh no,’ Sara thought scrunched up faces were not good. 

“Nach bhfuil tú,” (You are not,) the lady in black repeated forcefully. 

Modulating his speech Neal grounded out “ní contúirteach” (not dangerous) and “bheadh tú i do chabhair.” (You would be of help.) His expression of consternation was blink and you miss it.

Whatever it all meant, the third person in their trifurcate of not a con, con turned to the woman in blue and said, “What can I do for you Ms. Ellis? How can I help?” 

The strawberry blond smiled her thanks, “thank you for your help. My sister has been missing for decades and I have a lead. My first lead…” 

Ms. Carney put her hands over the one clutching hers. “Then let us follow it.” 

The trio slid into the warmth of the town car. The glasses wearer noticed a worn copy of The Works by Voltaire on the seat. 

Sara looked at the other woman with downcast eyes, “it was her favorite book and well I …” 

“Faith consists in believing what reason cannot.” 

Sara reached to hug Ms. Carney the lady’s words were highlighted in the little paperback at her side. “One day everything will be well, that is my hope. Everything’s fine today, that is my illusion.” 

Grace felt a rock lodging in her throat at the bastardization of the words, “it will be well Ms. Ellis, it will not be an illusion.”

November 22, 2013, Abandoned Rewbrey Barn, Lake Annette, Missouri 5:48PM

“I don’t know why we had to wait until the cover of darkness suit.” The be speckled man huffed out. His breath swirling around him like dragon two dragon tails ready for battle. 

“Because Mozzie the cover of darkness helps to shield us from prying eyes.” Mozzie brought his blue eyes around the area in a slow mo pan. 

“Suit the only thing we have encountered all day, 3 deer, 12 rabbits and 46 squirrels.” That the shorter man knew the exact numbers did not surprise the suit. In fact he was sure if he questioned Mozzie, he would have the exact count of trees, bushes and grass blades down.

The night shrouded duo made obmutescent tracks into the derided wooden nueraghe. Chills clawed up their spines in an effort to excise them from their chosen task. “Do not mistake quietness for weakness.” The double-coated man shuttered at the wind whistling through the tatter walls around him, “Evil is often better addressed in silence, Naide P. Obiang”

Peter brought his brown eyes up to the blue across from him. “Is there ever a situation you haven’t had a quote for?” 

Mozzie paused to give the question great thought. “No.” He answered simply. The New York visitors took in the barn before them with the weather eaten sands falling down the side of the hourglass and decayed floors like a sponge after the great wash. 

There was a presence of their friend hovered in the atmosphere surrounding them. “Ok suit, what do you expect to find this many years, decades after? Do you not wish to unearth bones and have a bonfire of the debonsing?” 

The lawman wasn’t sure what he wanted; he wasn’t even sure in the end why they made the trip. All he knew what he needed to see this place, whether out of tangible credence to the last stand of Danny Brooks or sadomasochism he wasn’t entirely sure. 

Time had not been kind to the wooden structure formally known as a barn. Walls bowed in as if the hibernated for the winter and forgot to reawake. The roof had caved in under the weight of the passing seasons. Peter looked about the ground so permeable to solids, other than a den for animals in need of ephemeral shelter it looked untouched by visiting life.

The fifty year old squat down his back creaking in a macabre effect against the flickering light of his IPhone. He crab walked for several minutes until Mozzie saw him halt mid pincher synch; his face frozen on the horror of the tragedy long past. 

With sloth speed the Dentist of New York amalgamated his body with the Suit. Tears would not fall from his leaden sky. Mozzie blinked rapidly, snapshotting the walls in his mind, anything to delay the inevitable. He did not want to see crimson evidence of the brutal buffeting his Mon frère (brother) received. 

Eventually his eyes followed to the point Peter’s were locked on target with. The blood lay across the withered wooden slats as a lovers silk to her knight bed. Mozzie sprayed his homemade luminal along the floor and walls, across rusted and hallowed John Deere tractor. 

“Bloody hell.” Peter grit out through tightened jaw muscles. 

Moz raised an eyebrow supernal. “Little on the nose don’t you think suit?” 

Peter looked at Moz his jaw tightening the barest hint more. “I can’t...” whatever it was Peter couldn’t do was sucked inward as he sprinted out of the barn. His world was off its axis. The night air clawed at open and exposed skin chilling his to his already rattled bones.

The shorter man came up behind him, Peter was so sure the pause that Mozzie gave before he started speaking was going to lead to a quote that he was thrown when the woolen ascot wearer spoke from the heart “We needed to be here. We needed to feel that. We needed to know. We love him Suit.” The Suit rolled his bottom lip in at the words. “What happened in there it is part of the enigma wrapped in a Devore topped with a dapper hat that we love.” 

The Suit moved to rejoin the heartfelt statement. He was forestalled by a ring adorned ungloved hand. “What happened in there,” the hand waved towards the Den of Evil, “happened. He walked in Danny Brooks and hobbled out Neal Caffrey. A Neal Caffrey that loves us, without conditions, without reservations. Despite the horror of what he endured, love could just not be beat out of him.”

Peter’s brown eyes started seeing spots, his hands rattled like carriage wheels over cobblestone, “without conditions, without reservations?” Peter labored the words out as if they were water in a drowning man’s lungs. “We have failed him Moz. Each in our own way. We have tried to change him and mold him into clay that would suit our needs.” 

The younger mans flicker of a smile on the word Suit was not lost on Peter. The not so finest man bowed his head is shame and disgrace. Never had he met a man more deserving of love. Or a man who had so many conditions placed on his continued love from other people. “Ní i bpíosaí.” (Not in pieces.) 

The balding man turned his head a language he was unfamiliar with. “Come again suit?” 

Peters voice heavy with the cloak of self recrimination translated, “it means not in pieces.” His eyes flickered about the forest in front of him before bringing his gaze back to the other man and his double skullcap adorned head.

“I didn’t understand it when she first said it.” Moz wondered who’s she was. “I didn’t understand the weight of it when he translated it.” Peter’s Adam’s apple bobbed at the rocks crashing in waves against its shore. “Will he always be in pieces?” Brown eyes locked on blue, Moz understood finally where this train was headed. 

The lawman greedily devoured the below freezing air in a strangled attempt to fill us lungs with air. His hands clenched into fists at his jeans covered hips before he ran shaking finger around his collar he couldn’t breath. “I feel as if I am no better than the animal,” his lashed out at himself in fury, his hand punched at the barn “who did that. In fact I am worse.” 

Moz brought his hands up to forestall the continued self-flagellation. “Peter.” Peter looked at the other man who so rarely if ever used his given name. “We, both of us are guilty of perpetrating crimes against him. We both wanted to aggregate him into our assembly of needs. I had found a friend.” The older mans face softened at the admission. 

“I had found a friend and I wanted to grow him into an old friend.” Somehow, Peter understood exactly what the other man was trying to say. “We are guilty of many failings to Neal. Many.” Moz continued, “we are not guilty the ferocity of savage beatings.” 

Peter shook his head in opposition of the statement, “am I not Moz?” 

His feet couldn’t stand there in the falling snow, he had to move, his legs moved of their own accord pacing up and down the path in exasperation, “I told him to get out of my sight he made me sick. If you could have seen the way he just stood there and accepted the abuse.” His voice wheezed our as his finger pointed to himself, “my abuse. As if it were his due.” 

Before Moz could interject Peter kept on as pointed to the barn, “of all the languages he is fluent in the one he most knows is abuse.” Moz ameliorated his physiognomy. The taller man in front of him was a raging storm of grief and pain. He stepped closer to the Suit across from not quite crossing the barrier for polite conversation but hovering on its edges like beams of the moon through leaves of a tree.

“What happened to you was in and of itself brutal Suit. Your world became a broken kaleidoscope of shattered beliefs. We all say things we wish we hadn’t when we are fighting the loss of that which we hold dear. Neal broke your faith in the system you hold so dear.” Peter couldn’t help but uptick his lips at the disgusted in the little mans voice at the word system.

“You didn’t lose your faith in Neal. Which I gather is why you are aggrieved. Why you continue to hurl stones at yourself. Why we are here now in these excrement infested woods.” Peter watched as the other mans breath danced the polka in the air. “You lost faith in yourself.” He searched out Peter’s eyes, “you lost faith in yourself and you just couldn’t understand or reconcile that Neal had not lost faith in you.”

Peter loosened his neck bindings even more despite the negative temperatures and the fierce and unrelenting winds dancing about them he couldn’t breathe. “In fact in doing what Neal did, he made a statement with a period at the end.” Peter couldn’t contain his strangled scream as Moz finished, “I choose you Peter. You are my family and I choose you.”

“And what did I do?” The brown haired man huffed out, “ I didn’t honor that choice.” He ran his hands over his face before continuing, “I brutally and with malice of forethought beat him. Punching him down at ever turn. That isn’t even love with conditions Moz, its…”His words hung low with his head.

There was a small time before getting to know the Suit that Moz might have reveled in hearing the New York native beat him self, punching himself with every word. Not now, they were all wounded, they need to cauterize the wounds, let them heal.

“We all, each of us fight a battle. What is important is we don’t fight it alone.” Rings glistened as the hands in them swing towards the barn, “he was alone in that battle. He feels alone now. What we must do is to resolve that he doesn’t have to fight alone again.” Peter’s chest hurt, his eyes burned and his heart was splintering like the wood a back him. “Now suit are we gonna make something burn tonight or have we already extinguished the flames?”

A/N: Just in Case…

Irish to English Translations Are As Follows:

Ní i bpíosaí = Not in pieces

B'fhéidir i bpíosaí = Maybe not pieces

Tá gliú ann = There is glue

Rud ar bith níos láidre? = Anything stronger?

An greamaigh a chomhiomlánú le stroighin? = Aggregate the paste with cement?

Oíche mhaith = Good night

Ádh mór = Good luck

An bhfuil sé contúirteach? = Is it dangerous? 

Craic? = Fun 

Ní droch-fhear tú. = You are not a bad man

Tá a fhios agam go gceapann tú go bhfuil tú. = I know you think you are

Nach bhfuil tú = you are not. 

Anois = now

An féidir liom cabhrú? = Can I help?

Nó an gcuirfidh mé bac? = Or will I get in the way?

Is droch-fhear mé. = I am a bad guy 

Ní contúirteach = Not dangerous 

Bheadh tú i do chabhair = You would be of help

French to English Translations Are As Follows:

Mon frère = Brother


	8. The marks humans leave are too often scars

NEW A/N: Top of the Day Readers! This is a little FYI for those of you who are already in progress with this story. Per a suggestion from an amazing and wonderful mentor I have made some stylistic edits to make the story (and it’s multiple languages) easier to read! 

“The marks humans leave are too often scars.”  
~ John Green, The Fault in Our Stars

November 22, 2013, The Woolworth Building, 7:33PM

The man in a Navy Blue Tom Ford Windsor three piece suit with its faint dotted lines strut the marbled lobby floor, a crimson red tie peaked out from atop his vest, his complementing Tom Ford Cashmere Chesterfield flapping in tune with his frenetic pace. A Coltrane C Cashmere fedora spinning on autopilot in his hands. Buffed to shine Salvatore Ferragamo’s continued the shuffle, ball, thump along the expanse of the alabaster and gold flooring. 

The mosaic above his coal colored head would normally draw the artist right in, the ornate carvings along the banisters would set his sculptures heart ablaze with such resplendent work. Tonight however, was not normally. Prolonged perusal of the bones of the Cass Gilbert building would have to wait. Blue eyes swung to the entrance doors, they showed no signs of the women he was waiting for.

Ferragamo’s beat a steady path in the corridor. He hadn’t previcated to Ms. Carney, what they were about to do wasn’t parlous and once upon a time it might have offered the provision of enjoyment. The accomplished conman found his heart just was not in the simple gambit the trio (if the ladies ever made the scene) sought to run. Still he paid his debts and when Sara called in one of her markers and for such a heart wrenching valid reason, the answer could only ever be yes. 

Where were they? The ladies were to meet him three minutes past. In order for a well-executed plan to work, it had to be well, executed. Timing was tantamount to the activities success; all actors were required to show at the curtain call. The shift change for security would start at 7:45PM. Sara and he needed to a limboed prior to that time or with the greatest of ease is not a celebratory phrase they would employ upon completion.

“Junior?” The strawberry blond purposefully made her voice carry across the lobby to the security desk as she opened the bronzed doors that heralded the start of the play. “Junior?” She said again augmenting her voice so it was just a little louder yet, the unmistakable sounds of her click, click, clicks could be heard echoing off the stoned walls. 

Neal thought about that night a few weeks ago the entelechy of Billy’s words, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances’ and one man in his time plays many parts,” were shining bright against the bathypelagic backdrop of the theatre production.

“Yes dear,” Neal modulated his voice to contain burning embers of humor and the barest hint of impatience for an assignation of carnal gatherings. His lithe body moved to embrace the lady in blue, his hand slowing moved down her silhouette, stopping for a moment to encircle her hip, then with larghetto grace his fingers splayed to cup her derriere. The guards watched from their perch at the base of the stairs as the dapper man in his evening finery rowed her boat towards his oar, finally crashing his lips to hers. The lady in the skin hugging blue dress and the expensive winter coat welted into his expert touch.

Mousy brown eyes looked through the antiqued front doors of the legendary building a front her. The smartly dressed duo was already on stage. The gentleman’s hand kneading at the ladies private dough his tongue dancing an intimate dance of lovers long acquainted and deep with the need to satiate a quest. The watcher was espial of the lady’s kinetic hand slid to ruffle at the edges of the gentleman’s mussed hair, her Manolo Blahnik covered foot ran its way up his leg, her knee stopping with controlled restraint at the apex of his thighs.

As the inside actors deepened the private embrace for public display the door a back them opened with a thundering creak. The lown thump of boots could be heard making their way onto the stage, as could the huff of “excuse me, excuse me” as the comely woman tried to circumvent the glamorous couple practicing their samba in the walkway.

As had been agreed upon prior to the curtain call, the single lady grit out a loud annoyed, “would you please excuse me?” Much lower for a specific audience of two she relayed, “everything burns… you just gotta know what fire to set.” Sara leaned away from the kiss but not the warmth of the tight embrace. Her crimson to compliment his tie lips smiling at the quote from Obie Williams, The Crimes of Orphans. The lady who came to help secure a lead on Emily’s disappearance was an original.

“I’m sorry.” Sara locution drawn out for the dramatic effect of the listening guards. “I didn’t realize we had taken up the entrance way.” Long expertly manicured fingers leafed down Neal’s alabaster cheek to rest on his lapel, “its just I needed to kiss him.” She climbed her fingers back up to the mans chin applying subtle pressure to move his face towards the newly arrived entrant. “Look at that face, who could resist?”

Ms. Carney took a moment to study her part time office partner. His physiognomy was all about the con his eyes however lacked their normal effulgance, nary a sparkle shown. She wondered if he every wished for people to see him and not his pretty packaging. “Somehow I will manage,” the sardonic reply was provided with the barest hint of an eye twinkle, “somehow.” 

Blue eyes washed over the canvas in front of him. Commencing their appraisal with the boots that made the intenerate thump on the carved walking surface below their feet, they were the color of night, calf hugging with squared heels and festooned with stitching down the sides.

The lady’s knees the only undraped part of her surface peaked out in a teasing display of exposed skin. Her body was ensconced in a carmine red swing dress. The skirt was gathered in full flowery folds around her hips little obsidian buttons formed a line from her waist up to were the blouse top folded along her décolletage. A locket lay at the center of the opening as if teasing the observer to look more closely to where the silver laid nestled safe in its mountainous valley.

Her lips were the color of merlot sipped at midnight. Her rounded cheeks were finely dusted with blush. Her chocolate eyes enhanced with a stroke or two of liner, which only served to make them all the more alluring, like naked night swimming. Waist length hair bounced in large curls down her back and just over the one shoulder. Gone were her Coke bottle glasses, temporarily replaced by what he could only assumer were contacts. Gone was the Ms. Carney he knew, the frumpy non descript lady in black. 

“May I be allowed to pass?” Her brown eyes danced a jig at the incredulous jut of his chin, “or do I need to stay for the next showing?” Even her voice was different he noted with awe, she ameliorated the tone to the match the startling different drapes covering her surface. 

Neal nictitated his lens. His hand ran a well-trodden path down Sara’s side to rest along the shape of her rump and put himself back in the con. “Come along dear. We have a main event to get to.” The dazzling duo turned synchronistically enough towards their waiting onlookers to allow safe passage.

Sara nuzzled his neck kissing his throat just above the knot of his tie, Neal let his hand tighten just enough with the intimate touch. They were putting on a show and it needed to sell out. He reached his chin down and kissed her, bringing her tongue in to tango. Letting his other hand come up to cup her side, high enough up from the hip that the guards were wishing they had popcorn.

The lady in the red dress walked over to the security desk the swing of her skirt matching the swing of a bell clapper when it tintibulated midnight. “Excuse me,” her voice small on purpose. The guards weren’t detured in their viewing of the blue picture show in front of them. 

Ms. Carney placed her petite evening bag down on the counter, her red nails atop it “excuse me,” she ingeminated with enough volume in her voice to signal to the long guard who turned her way, this was a second attempt. 

Once his attention was on her she relayed her lines with a mixture of spice and everything nice, “Good evening. I am so sorry to interrupt,” her brown eyes glanced past the food boxes on the lower counter, “your dinner” and moved her head to the side, errant curls bouncing up and down as she did, “and show.”

The other guards swung their faces to the lady at the wooden table top, chagrin creeping up their necks in a flushed display of being caught watching a rated R movie. Sara’s giggling could be heard behind Grace’s back. “I was to meet a friend at the NYU Center for Global Affairs and I seem,” the actress moved the divagate hair that had fallen into cut of her bosom, “to be a bit lost.”

The entwined lovers moved closer. From her periphery Ms. Carney could see that Sara was draped across the surface of the man in the blue on blue ensemble. His hat atop her head tipped askew as if to say, yes boys this is all I will be wearing in a few moments. Their kissing escalated the barometric pressure of their bodies; Neal’s hands worked her back like a weaver at loom.

Three sets of eyes momentarily brought themselves back to the picture show at the small delicate groan that escaped Sara well kissed lips. Her cheeks rouged with self-consciousness at the scene they made and topped with estrus at the scene they were to make, “maybe we should take it upstairs Junior.” 

His blue eyes swirled like a tornado ready to touch down, “yes dear maybe we should.”

From the corner of his eye Neal made sure that all was well with Ms. Carney’s part in the play. All the world’s a stage and she was not merely a player in it he acknowledged with a subtle swallow. The men behind the desk had sat in their high-backed leather chairs in embarrassed silence. The lady picked up her purse making sure the little handle caught a small sliver of wood (inspired addition he noted with mirth) and accrescented her voice “Can you help?” 

All three guards turned back to the singly lady at their counter, her question momentarily forgotten at the thought of what was going to happen upstairs. “Yes ma’am of course” the first guard jumped up out of his chair. Blue eyes took in the fall of the onyx princess cut wool coat and how it hugged the confines of the ladies callipygian with its roundness that painters dreamed about painting and sculptures dreamed about molding, as she moved towards the outside with the guard. 

“Let me walk you out, show you the path.” The lone sentry said to the lady in the red dress. The tongue tangoing duo successfully faded into the ornate elevator without being stopped during the changing of the guard on their way to the offices on the 39th floor marked only by a small black sign, Private.

November 25, 2013, The Burke Residence, 7:14AM

“Hon, thank you for this. I know you want to get in early and finish that report.” El turned to her husband as she was twisting her dangled hoop earing into place. 

“Thats what we husbands do.” The husband who did replied with a little chuckle. He reached for her coat hanging off the stairs holding it open so she could step into it. Once she did her reached down and kissed the top of her head.

Peter had missed these little moments, the them little moments. El reached up and put a gentle hand to her husbands cheek, “well mister tonight you will reap rewards.” 

His brown eyes danced the tango at her coquetting, “is it tonight yet?” He catechized as his hands slid under her coat and pulled her in close. 

Elizabeth Burke smiled a well-known lovers smile and kissed her husband just the way he liked it, with her hands at the dip in his back and her knee just inside his. Peter deepened the kiss his hands tightening around her hips. 

The event planners phone rat it tat tatted its appearance crashing waves of cold water atop any furthering progress of loving in the morning. The married couple stepped back from each other allowing for a second of composure. 

Importuned blue eyes glanced at the caller, her sigh loud enough to rose Satchmo from his slumber next to the couch, “Mr. Chantham, how are you doing this morning?” Knowing their morning delight had been halted in its tracks Peter picked up the ladies bags and headed down to their waiting gray BMW 680i. 

Peter made sure his wife’s seat warmer was set to high as El slid in next to him. “Right. Yes Mr. Chantham, I am on my way.” She hit end and put the interuptus phone in her oversized mauve Rebecca Minkoff satchel. “I’m sorry about that.” The event planner turned to her husband with a sincere apology. 

“Its ok Hon. It’s your busy week. I understand.” He returned.

Her left hand reached over to his Brooks Brothers covered right thigh, “how are you going to handle work today?” 

They pulled up to a red light, his right hand reached down to cover hers. “One step at a time.” 

The wife tapped her husbands leg, “and?” The neigh on omniscient woman prodded in the verbal as well as the physical knowing the significance of the day.

“And today is the day El.” Peter could feel her blue eyes on him with their magical lambent of love. “I don’t know how I am going to handle it.” He could barely wheeze out. He took a calming breath. “All I know is I have to handle it.” Soon the driver pulled into the loading dock area of the Chantham Building to help his wife unload her event wares. “We have to handle it.” He amended quietly as if sharing a secret. El squeezed his hand before they took exit the luxury vehicle.

November 25, 2013, FBI Evidence Storage, (Cold Case Counter), 7:35AM

Blue eyes skittered about the walls of the conveyance eventually landing on the gash he noticed his first ride down to the little slice of FBI pie. His fingers ran over the groves then repeated the process with his matching one. 

‘Get out of my sight you make me sick.’ A chorus of his mom and Peters voices in screamed in his coal colored head. Those venomous words would never lose their sting. No matter the nisus towards peace he and Peter made. Neal would always hear the unfettered honesty with which they were relayed. 

In his heart the CI knew that Agent was fighting a battle inside himself when he raged those words out. In fact Peter most likely meant he couldn’t stand the sight of himself. Because he couldn’t find the sack to say that he turned on Neal a target he could launch his missile at.

Their worlds changed irrevocably the instant Peter learned of his being the recorded voice. Neal didn’t regret that choice. He could not and he would not. In fact even knowing how the upstate native would react, how he would come to treat him, to hate him, he would do it all again. 

The shaking transportation finally stopped at its subterranean destination. Neal automatically straightened his simple unadorned black tie then removed his hat as he exited. The person he sought conference with was on the phone. Two long strides brought his black panted legs to the counter but not around it. She nodded at him and as an after thought added a smile, then continued on her phone call. 

“Yes sir.” Her weary eyes closed for a nary a second. “Yes sir. I understand sir.” The conman noted the almost deference in her voice. “You as well as well sir.” Her squared hand still with its red swirled nail polish placed the phone top back in it’s cracked cradle with a bone weary sigh. 

“Upstairs today Mr. Caffrey?” Neal thought she might act different thanks to the night escapade at The Woolworth Building. It would appear he was erroneous in his thoughts. 

“Yes Ms. Carney.” He placed his hat on the old wooden tabletop. “Most likely tomorrow as well.” Her smile grew in size. Smile? She was smiling. He apparently was off on all his assessments. 

“Your banishment has been lifted?” Now he understood the beaming, she was jocund at the thought of his being reaccepted into his White Collar family. Ms. Carney really was something else he mused. 

Neal flattened his hands on the counter as he disabused her of the notion, “I didn’t see it as banishment.” 

“Well I no longer view it as banishment.” He amended. 

“You see it as a well feed break from the life of large windows and active cases?” The CI laughed at the records clerk returned to her black on black with overly large sweater trying to put him at ease. “Have a wonderful week Mr. Caffrey and a blessed holiday.” 

Neal tapped his fingers, he had forgotten about the holiday. The last few years he had dined with the Burke’s. He bit the inside of his lip, he would never be allowed to set foot in their house again, much less be invited for what all would consider a family meal. His thoughts strayed to his bald friend and to his homeowner both who were also not an option this year. Such is life he released his lip.

“Have a wonderful day Ms. Carney.” Ms. Carney noticed his purposeful omittance of the holiday but otherwise made no comment on it. With a tip of his hat to his head the battle-weary solider turned on his Berluti’s, stepped into the waiting elevator and headed to the 51st floor. 

November 25, 2013, FBI White Collar, 7:40AM

Neal paced the space with uncontained energy his nerves bouncing through his bones with little or no control for movement. His heart beat as if he were trapped in Carmina Burana and the symphony’s rises and crashes. His previous conversation with Peter cloaking all other thoughts trying to run through his mind. 

‘Out beyond idea of wrongdoing and right doing there is a field,’ His first thought upon hearing the words was that he was going back to prison, where he belonged. The thought assuaged his fears of continuing to aggrieve the agent. He was a criminal, a bad man (despite Ms. Carneys protestations) who did bad things. Peter at White Collar and him in prison (for good this time) that was the symmetry that made sense. 

The elevator doors opened to the lobby area of 51st floor of the Jacob K. Javits building at 26 Federal Plaza. Emerging from the conyance an actor ready for the stage. Blue eyes scanned the White Collar offices, Agent Jones in his favorite dark gray suit and forest green tie, a early returned Agent Berrigan filling out her black pantsuit with a little more hip and dip than before, ASAC Burke and Special Agent in Charge Kyle Bancroft. With one final breath to confirm he was in character Neal opened the door.

“Caffrey, my office now.” A Quantico taught finger point followed the bellowed decree. Neal dropped his sable Stetson on Socrates. Quickly folded his coat atop his hat and scurried up the stairs on dancers toes. Peter locked brown eyes with blue then surreptitiously tapped his wedding ring finger on his thigh. Neal tapped his ring finger back. 

“Your troll time is done.” Peter flushed with barely restrained anger, “You services are required here. Do you understand me?” Neal’s eyes flickered like a shorting light but otherwise gave no outward response to the spittle flying at his face. 

The White Collar ASAC reiterated the words with exaggerated enunciation “Do you under stand me?!” 

Neal’s back slumped a microscopic amount, as he replied “not lately” almost under his breath. The “Yes Agent Burke, I understand” that followed was for the benefit of the crowd he had no doubt gathered in the lower section of the office.

Peter tapped again; this time Neal made no move to return the gesture. Peter tried once more with their special code. Quiescent reigned from the digits across him. With gritted teeth not all of which was an act the agent tossed the dog a bone, “conference room.” Spittle dripped from his lip. “Where you will stay until I tell you that you can leave.”

Neal aphonicaly acquiesced to the instructions with a single nod. He turned on his heal with such precession a Marine Corps General would be impressed and with measured steps walked to the conference room. The entirety of the White Collar office tried to pretend they weren’t varying shades of ahgast with the display of temper and unmittigated cruelty from the ASAC to the CI. 

SAC Bancroft poked his head in the ASAC office, “all ok Agent Burke?” 

Peter nodded, “Sorry sir.” The junior agent took a breath continuing on his brutish path, “someone has forgotten who holds the leash.” His brown eyes swirling whirlpools of anger, “We are just going through a period of obedience retraining.” 

The Special Agent in Charge took in the agent in front of him. Peter was level headed and balanced, since this whole business that brought him to temporary stay in the other government building his temperament had changed. Part of him approved of the distancing himself from the CI, part of him wondered if maybe Peter wasn’t over compensating.

“As you were Agent Burke,” the senior agent took his leave. He headed down the little set of office stairs and after a brief interlocution with Agent Jones walked out the main doors and down the back hallway that would take him to the stairwell up to his office.

“Neal,” Peters voice was depleted of choler as called out to the other occupant as he entered the conference room. 

The Devore wearer stood up from his chair his hands in supplication as his side, “Yes Agent Burke.” Peter tapped again. 

The younger man’s blue eyes stared at something over the agents shoulder. “Neal.” Peters voice dropped to almost pleading. The agent watched as the vain in his CI’s neck ticked. 

“Yes Agent Burke,” he repeated undeterred deference in his voice.

Knowing they needed to commence upon the next phase in the plan Peter just pointed to the open files on the table in front of him. “Please take a look.” The please is what snapped something in the otherwise neutered man across from him. His painters hands clenched into pugilist fists in reaction to the one word. 

“Yes sir,” was all the native of DC said as he regained his seat and laid eyes over the papers affront him.

Hours upon hours the Peter and Neal stayed in the confrence room. Agents Jones and Berrigan hovering vigil by the door in agreed upon intervals. Once an hour one or the other would bring something in for the ASAC to look at or approve. Never once did their CI’s head move from the papers in his view master.

About 4:00PM long past the time for lunch, Agent Clinton Jones did something rash. His consternation at the day’s events shining like well embered fire across his face. Peter was out of control; he was almost barbaric in his treatment of the CI. 

Clinton replayed the scene with Bancroft in his head, “someone has forgotten who holds the leash. We are just going through a period of obedience retraining.” 

The leader that he had come to admire and sought to emulate spoke of their teammate and friend as if he were no better than a stray dog needed to be brought to heal. His clenched hands relaxed enough to grab his phone and hit a series of numbers. The man in gray requested a file from cold storage. He inquired as to whether the clerk would be willing to bring up the desired paperwork, he was “in the middle of connecting the dots” he told her, he “didn’t want to break in concentration and go to retrieve it.” 

She told him she “would bring in posthaste.”

At 4:23PM the elevator rang out announcing the arrival of the file and thus its specifically chosen delivery person. Clinton raised his eyes to Diana in an obmusent message to watch Neal and Peter, most especially Neal. Diana glanced from the newly arrived entrant to the tension filled room atop the stairs.

The records clerk brown eyes washed over the White Collar shore searching for the channel marker in a black tie. Once her all to discerning eyes landed on the object of her search she crinkled her nose. With a bit of fire raging in her face she brought her assessing gaze towards Agent Jones. The message in her eyes was clear to the Agent, ‘What in the ever loving hell?’

“Good Evening Ms. Carney, thank you so much for bringing this up.” Clinton made sure his deep voice carried all the way up the stairs and into the conference room. Her eyebrow shot up in time with her eyes. The agent wondered if he had made an error in judgment when she winked at him and played along. 

“Good Afternoon Agent Jones, it is nice to see you again. I secured the file you requested.” Her small hands handed over the file and the clipboard to his much larger ones. Diana observed as Neal heard the salutation offered by her teammate to the file clerk she had yet to meet. Clearly this was someone Caffrey held in great respect and judging from her quick presto chango to the con at hand the feeling was mutual.

Diana ran an evaluating set of eyes over the lady who had brought the file to Jones. She was plump, frump and dump. She looked like a librarian who lived at the library. Still the second Neal heard her name was the first movement she had seen from him since taking his seat across from their Draconian leader.

His blue eyes carded from the pages on the tabletop to the lady standing in the alleyway of desks. Her brown eyes covered by the ugliest glasses Diana had ever set eyes to alighted to her teammates. The librarian mouthed something to Neal that couldn’t be in English or else her expert lip-reading would have caught it. 

Neal’s eyes softened as they knelt back down to the pages in front of him. Diana pendulmed back to the lady in all black save for the bright rose-colored laces on her Doc Marten boots. Her brown eyes bounced over to Clinton who wrote thank you on a post it and then placed it on the records clipboard. The only response he received was a small uptick of the ladies unpainted lips.

“Agent Jones might I borrow one of those?” Ms. Carney pointed to the sticky note pad. 

The man nodded in the affirmative, “yes of course Ms. Carney.” He handed it over without delay. As she scribbled what ever it was, her brown eyes landed on the other Agent who was take a billboard out over Central Park blunt in her assessing of the file bringer.

Diana startled at being caught in the act. “Agent Diana Berrigan.” 

She held out her hand. “Grace Carney, Records Clerk.” The ladies shook in greeting and salutation. The records clerk returned the pad to the male agent. “Thank you so much for the use of the paper Agent Jones,” her gaze moved astride to include the other agent, “have a good night and forthcoming holiday.” 

She backed up palmed the note inside the exposed pocket of Neal’s coat and made her way to the elevator. Diana waited till the other lady was safely inside the metal box and with her eye on an eerily still Neal Caffrey slid the note from the pocket. A foreign language stared back at her. In a way she was glad, guilt knocked her in the chest as she returned the missive to its previous destination.

5:00PM came and went still the duo atop the stairs made no move to exit their circle of Hell. The two agents a bottom the stairs kept vigil out of the corner of their eyes. Neal had not shifted in his chair he had not even moved his errant curl out of his eye. Normally a bottle of barley contained energy it was scary to see him akin to the stone lion outside the library.

At 5:37PM the junior agents heard the senior tell the CI he could go. They continued to observe the scene in the conference room, their sickened reactions unhidden. Neal put the papers in some semblance of order known only to him. Attached the notes he had been taking as if this was for his final grade (which it was.) Soundlessly he closed the file with the barest of hint of what might consider a push moved it towards the ASAC.

With grace he pushed back towards the windows he was so found of looking out of, then with not even a turn towards them, rejoined the chair with the conference room table. His long legs descended the stairs in two steps. The native of DC sleeved his winter weight coat and hatted his head in one movement, not the little flip he usually employed. Only then did he turn to the agents in waiting, with one small nod he bid them good night.

Diana and Clinton continued to watch their teammate in open assessment as he exited into the waiting area. It was then he brought his hands to his pockets in an effort to straighten the coat. When his right hand exited the woolen fold the note came with it. Whatever it said was what Neal needed, his face weltered at the words and his fingers palmed it back to the safety of the coat alcove. 

The duo smiled at each other. Clinton had made the right choice. The second the other man was in the elevator they followed and watched as the numbers ticked to the basement address. “Who is she?” Diana asked of the Agent who had been here for all she missed.

The man in gray shook his head, “I don’t know. All I do know is the only time since the business with the senator I have seen him smile a real smile was at her.” Diana looked at Socrates then back to her teammate as he continued, “He has been subjugated to the basement for weeks Diana.” 

“At first I thought they just need to cool off.” She jutted her lip out in agreement with his assessment, “let Peter lick his wounds. Then it would eventually blow over.” Clinton tarried on as they reached for for their coats, “you saw him. Who ever that is, it isn’t a Caffrey.”

Diana secured her purse the bottom drawer of desk and for the first time in their respective White Collar histories the junior agents exited with out so much as a night, never mind the good to their boss. This oversight was not lost on the ASAC. He was neigh on holding it together. As soon as he heard the telltale ding that signified that the last of his team took their exit he hung his head in his hands.

Neal had not responded after the first tap. He just metamorphosed into the leashed animal Peter had called him to Bancroft. They had to do this. They had to finish the job. Clinton calling Grace had been an inspired idea. He saw the younger man’s eyes move for the barest of seconds when she made the scene. Probably mouthing something in a language he had no hope of understanding. 

Whatever. It served to loll Neal a fraction of a nano of a hair and if the lady from the matrix of files could accomplish that, he was grateful. The plan was working he noted his stomach twisting this way and that. He sincerely hoped he had the testicular fortitude to continue this play until the final act. He found his balls weren’t made of brass as first he thought.

November 25, 2013, FBI Evidence Storage, (Cold Case Counter), 5:43PM

The records clerk had given up pretending to log the file in front of her. In fact she had given up any pretense at working and simply stared at the cire doors of the freight elevator waiting (she hoped not in vein) for the telltale sounds of the conveyance announcing the arrival of her former office mate.

Mere moments into the future the rasp and scrap of the old box made its decent known. Finally the doors creaked back and blue eyes sought out her brown ones, “I received your message.” The lady walked up to her side of the counter taking in the barely restrained storm in the face across from her.

A decision was made, “Would you be amenable to dining with me for an evening meal Mr. Caffrey?” She noted he kept his hands in the oversized pockets of his overcoat. 

Resolved not to break from his mask the man responded low “I’m afraid Ms. Carney, I have a rather short leash. We may need to choose some place close for my bowl.” 

There was no such mask resolve in the storm that raged across her face, in fact he mussed it was just the son et lumiere of a winter storm. Her verbal response joined the facial one mere seconds later, “might you call the box? Hold the door open from the inside please?” The man thought to question her at the odd request then just simply turned and opened the elevator doors holding the door open button.

It wasn’t until he watched his hand completing the peculiar request that it occurred to him what she did. She got him away from the sight and the sound of the cage doors. A ghost of a smile appeared for a fleeting second before a strangled sigh escaped him.

Seconds later a file box and then its carrier joined him. “I need to drop this quick at the lobby for delivery.” The gentleman with manners moved on instinct to take the box from her laden arms. 

Brown eyes were a crosspollination of sorrowful and ready for war. “Ní droch-fhear tú.”(You are not a bad man.) He removed the box from her arms not offering a response to her unflinching decree. They stepped off the elevator as taciturn as their ride had occurred. They logged it in for picked up at the security station and exited the building as the wind fought at the door.

Peter watched in silent sentry from the corner of the vestibule obscured by the metal framing of the directory sign as Neal held out his hands in an open gesture and she waved hers in animation. Peter continued to watch as they walked off into the darkened distance.

With automatic reflex the Agent pulled out his phone. He exhaled a shaky breath as he acknowledged to himself the action he was taking; he brought up the Marshalls tracking service. Peter noted that the Irish duo was on the path Neal would normally take home. Peter watched the blinking light on his phone for sometime until his wife’s face flashed across the screen.

November 25, 2013, Citarella Gourmet Market, (Upper West Side), 6:40PM 

The unmatched to outside eyes couple shopping said nary a word to each other. Their only communication was through a series of punctuated gesticulations. The gentleman insisted on carrying the green food basket, his arm never once provided in way of complaint as the items increased the weight on his limb. In due course the hungry denizens of the FBI building had secured the supplies on the ladies mental checklist of food stocks.

As they neared the cash register the gentleman went to pull out his wallet the first words to pass the ladies lips since her censure of his internal thoughts came tumbling out “if you try and complete that action Mr. Caffrey. I will never ever enter into a kitchen for you again.”

An uncertain hand hovered over his pocket, the gentleman in him wanting to pay, the lover of all her kitchen wanted to continue reaping the benefits. His hand stilled. Once there stocks had been bagged he grabbed them with a quick, “touch one bag to carry Ms. Carney and I will...” she waited with a raised eye waiting to hear his ultimatum, “never do my hat trick again.” He realized his commination was not really on par with her’s. 

His oceans swirled with mirth at the unfettered smile that sprang to her lips at the weak finish. Whether out of sauce or sass she touched one little finger to the bag. He couldn’t help the chuckle that broke through in a rumble from his chest. 

November 25, 2013, 351 Riverside Drive, (June’s Apartment), 7:01PM

As they were turning on to the block that held their roof top x marks the spot the gentleman broke the silence of their evening footslog “I’m sorry you had to come all this way Ms. Carney.” He shifted the bags to alight the key from his pocket before concluding his thought, “this is what it means to be friends with a felon.”

Her voice flowed with empathy as she responded, “I didn’t know we were friends Mr. Caffrey.” His eyes startled at what he felt had become a given. Did no one want him in his or her life anymore? Even Moz had told him it might not be until the following week he would return. Which meant a very singly holiday awaited him in a few short days.

“Ba é mo thuiscint,” (It was my understanding) he switched unconsciously to Irish. 

“Ní raibh mé ag iarraidh toimhdí a dhéanamh.” (I didn’t want to make assumptions.) The brown haired woman continued her explanation, “Uaireanta tagaimid isteach i saol daoine nuair a bhíonn siad ag teastáil uainn.” (Sometimes we come into people’s lives when we are needed.)

Her voice was rick steady as she finished “Níl mé ag iarraidh go mbraitheann tú faoi bhrú rud éigin a ainmniú." (I don’t want you to feel pressured to name something.) Ms. Carney was providing him the dignity and respect of making a decision about his life thus previously denied to him. 

“Is tú mo chara.” (You are my friend.) He returned in whispered response.

They made their way up the front steps at the Upper West Side address careful not to slip on the icy covering. The bag carrier set down his bundles and out of the corner of his eye watched as she low key touched one with a finger. He laughed at her humorous attempt to release some of the tension swirling about the otherwise stormless night. The apartment renter purposely put his hat under his arm as if to say ‘fine then no hat tricks for you!”

As they climbed the stairs her eyes stayed in front of her. Neal observed this with no small amount of fascination. That was some control she had. Had it been reversed his eyes would have ping ponged around the space greedily soaking up what he could about his surroundings.

They stopped at his door the one Peter hammered at not to long in the past; Neal unlocked the barrier and then held the door open for her to make entrance into his provisional sanctorum. Awkwardly he wondered if he brought his newly folded underclothes back to the dressing room or he had left them on the bed. 

She made no move to enter the threshold into the apartment, he watched as the pulse in her neck sped up the littlest of ticks like the second place driver at a race. Neal didn’t know her reaction was fear or apprehension. Either made him dip his head in shame, she was his friend. He knew well the panic that coursed its way through your soul when you felt unsafe. 

The lady squeezed her two fingers in a well practiced manner and the world returned to normal. Her eyes looked out the back set of doors taking in the huge deck area. It was not lost on the observer that her first thought was to secure an if needed alternate exit route.

Neal carried the food bags over to the table, and then headed to his bed where he draped his coat and jacket, tossed his hat down. As he entered the main area he rolled his sleeves in an effort to be ready to help with the cooking. 

Ms. Carney mirrored his actions she walked to the table took of her jacket folded it over the chair, took of her sweater folded it over the chair. Then took of her glasses and rubbed her eyes. As she placed them back on her nose she interpellated as to whether he might be in possession of an apron. Also might he have a soup pan, where was the chopping board and…. At least that is what he thought she said. 

His blue lens were much to focused on her unobstructed tattoo. Without the hideous sweaters, jackets or long sleeves of her recent sartorial past he could view the Arabic unbidden. Now he understood why the coverings. He knew those distinctive markings well; they came from handcuffs that sliced too deep in your skin, never to heal right. 

“Ní raibh mé sa phríosún.” (I was not in prison.) She said as she absently rubbed the cicatrix of a time long past. His quiddity was on full display as he looked at her with a blend of heartbreak and tenderness. 

“Níl, bhí tú in ifreann.” (No, you were in Hell.) His hand hovered over the defaced area careful not to touch her. 

She ghosted her hand over his heart his eyes softening at the use of the present tense, “mar atá tú.” (As are you.)

A/N: Just in Case…

Irish to English Translations Are As Follows:

Ní droch-fhear tú = You are not a bad man

Ba é mo thuiscint = It was my understanding

Ní raibh mé ag iarraidh toimhdí a dhéanamh = I didn’t want to make assumptions

Uaireanta tagaimid isteach i saol daoine nuair a bhíonn siad ag teastáil uainn = Sometimes we come into people’s lives when we are needed

Níl mé ag iarraidh go mbraitheann tú faoi bhrú rud éigin a ainmniú = I don’t want you to feel pressured to name something

Is tú mo chara = You are my friend

Ní raibh mé sa phríosún = I was not in prison

Níl, bhí tú in ifreann = No, You were in Hell

Mar atá tú = As are you


	9. “In the expression of grief lies recovery from grief itself.”

NEW A/N: Top of the Day Readers! This is a little FYI for those of you who are already in progress with this story. Per a suggestion from an amazing and wonderful mentor I have made some stylistic edits to make the story (and it’s multiple languages) easier to read! 

“In the expression of grief lies recovery from grief itself.”  
~ Christopher Priest, The Prestige 

November 26, 2013, FBI White Collar, 6:15AM

Socrates sat atop the governmental gray desk in solitary sentry that blustery Tuesday morning on the 51st floor of Jacob K. Javits building at 26 Federal Plaza. The very simple charcoal Baileys fedora that rested on the lithoid was unadorned by neither feather nor button. An oil colored Givenchy wool pea coat lay perched in plain view of the Greek philosophers marbled lens.

The owner of these habiliments was immersed in a pool of FBI files in the meeting room at the top of the small stairwell. The susurrus of the wind rapped fists against the windows behind the occupant and his undeviatingly erect back. Never once did the man in his simple black and white suit startle, his attention much like his back was undeviating in loyalty to the paperwork on the large table in front of him.

If the lone knight in the castle’s turret could hear the pop and whoosh of the old metal coffee machine in the break area he could no indication. His focus had not swayed beyond the surface in front of him. The office below started to fill with the few agents and support personnel who had not thought to take the day or week off to celebrate with Turkey, stuffing and all other manner of trimmings.

The melting pot of disparate rhythms and ablutions fustigated with a frenzy on the 51st floor. A random agent at the copier dropped a stapler, another the cup box next to the water dispenser, yet the man ensconced in the meeting room remained oblivious to the flurry of activity, even when he was joined in the room above the stairs. 

In fact it took not one, not two, but three, “Caffrey’s” to secure his awareness that some one was calling out for him. Even then Agent Jones wouldn’t have called what he received from his team member attention, or maybe he would. Though it was more than Caffrey was standing at attention, as he himself had through out his military career.

“Yes Agent Jones,” the man opposite him responded with obsequious deference. Clinton’s warm brown eyes washed over the gentleman in front of him the first thing he made note of, the dapper dresser was again in neutral black and white and sans tie pin. The man always cut a fine swath; the lack of tiepin was disturbing. 

Even more incommodious was the man who hyperactive energy pervaded ever space he walked into was nonexistent. Neal was so still, so devoid of movement, devoid of anything. Clinton straightened his already straight tie so that his hand wouldn’t matriculate into a fist. The scene in front of him was not just eerie, it wasn’t right. 

“Good Morning Caffrey,” the lawman sought to keep his interaction with CI open and respectful. He needed the man sans tie pin to understand that he did not agree with or endorse the unmerciful treatment that the departments ASAC, their boss and this man’s partner, maybe partner, former partner, Agent Burke had provided him. 

“I was headed to Bluestone, can I grab you a coffee?” The blue eyes that locked on his never wavered in their gaze, his body moved nary an inch. 

“No, thank you Agent Jones.” Five words, that was all the coffee offerer had to show for his five minutes in the conference room with a man whose vocabulary was so vast the agent had to look up words Neal used on the regular in a dictionary.

Blue eyes migrated to the southern location of the papers in front of him like a moth pulled to a flame. Clinton was not undulated from his place inside the doorframe. Sensing he was still joined by the man who proffered him a morning beverage, Neal’s blue eyes relocated back up to focus on the man in the navy blue suit, “was there something that you required of me?” 

The former Navy man couldn’t control his flinch at the submissiveness, the obedience (Peter had said he needing the training) with which that was asked. This was not Caffrey. “How long have you been at the office?” The Harvard graduate asked gently. 

“6:15 Agent Jones.” As an afterthought Neal added, “I made sure to log in with security.” Clinton was successful in fighting the second flinch, barely. They were long past the time the felon needed to log in with security. He was a member of their team, card access and all.

The agent didn’t want to further distress the man in black and white sans tiepin. For some reason the missing adornment bothered him almost as much as the tractable manner with which Caffrey was speaking. Clinton had spent enough time with the native of DC to know that the guy was barely holding it together. “As you were Caffrey,” he head declined in a solemn bow. 

The CI brought his eyes back down to the documents a front him, losing himself once more in the task at hand. Sometime later as the sun broke through the just vengeance of the grayed sky out, Neal found the thread the sewed the pieces of the puzzle together. What he needed to do next was place the pages in chronological order. The organizing require the catalytic action of movement to release papers from their folders, it also necessitated Neal to raise his head.

A thundering snap, crackle and pop could be heard from where the cranium alleviated pressure from the neck, it was then that the former Bennett noticed the large blue paper cup with the white Texas type star along the base. The coal head stared at the Bluestone recyclable cup for a good ten seconds before moving it aside like a pebble in the sand. Long fingers work to spread the documents out. Neal then relocated his tense framework to the white board and set about writing out the formula used to draw the conclusion made. 

The ASAC would want to know the process he used. The agent would want confirmation that his subordinate didn’t cast off the work to another. That he listened to the commands provided him. This meant providing a visual roadmap to illustrate the process, the progress and thus the results. 

Upon completion of the measurements taken to provide the senior agent the documentation he would demand with autocratic importunity, the resident of 351 Riverside drive rescued his Monteblanc Westside leather wallet from his fastidiously pressed trouser pocket. He lifted $10 from the billfold and scurried down the stairs like ants to a picnic. As it turned out Agent Jones was away from the confines of his government desk and he did a quick visual of the floor the white collar offices as well. Wanting to make sure the coffee funds were settled the CI left the Alexander Hamilton where the man would not miss it upon return from parts unknown. 

Agent Berrigan took in the quick like a bunny bank deposit with an air of melancholic sadness. Caffrey. Well, the old Caffrey, the before Caffrey was never silent, even when he wasn’t talking his energy bounced around the room in a collision of vitality and vigor. The old Caffrey would always appreciate free coffee, especially any coffee that didn’t come from the antiquated never worked quite right machine in the break area. The old Caffrey also would have acknowledged her. Offered some observation oh how she made place nicer or inquired after Theo. This Caffrey, the new Caffrey simply returned to the punishment room at the top of the stairs.

When lunchtime clicked across the clock, Diana and Clinton discussed bringing their team member his favorite sandwich, a smoked caprese panini with eggplant and prosciutto, ultimately the agents didn’t want to further aggrieve Neal so they decided against it. Bile rouse in their respective throats as they both labored through their first bites of ham on rye and egg salad on white.

“He isn’t him,” Diana’s susurrused out to her teammate with eyes filled with sorrow. Clinton’s eyes waffled back towards the conference room where Neal was shifting though file boxes and files, distributing certain pieces to certain stacks. 

“No, it isn’t.” The military man agreed with labored breath.

“I have always thought Caffrey would serve out the rest of his time and should be happy he has it so good here.” His brown eyes looked at his partner recently returned from maternity leave, “I almost think prison might be better.” Diana’s head hung low, she knew exactly what he meant. Their CI was a broken man, gone were his movements so full of life, his effulgent smile that could light up the room, and his laugh that was music to the symphony of White Collar.

Her soul churned with turbulent waves of anger white capped with pain to see Neal so unhim. If it weren’t for Ms. Carney whose ridge formed a stark silhouette against the FBI sky Diana would think that Neal was no longer capable of signs of life. The fact she was even considering eye movement other than unmitigated deference life was a sad commentary of the state of affairs.

Along about 3:00PM the ASAC of the division entered the front doors of their mostly desolated landscape. Peter had been locked in a meeting with SAC Bancroft and a host of other higher ups, including the dreaded often feared OPR. In the terse message he parsed out to his junior agents, he had told them it was an end of quarter. Still with OPR involved it couldn’t just be a simple wrap up the year meeting of the minds. He followed up the one sentence explanation with an uncompromising edict, “Caffrey had better be working ALL day.” The untempered emphasis on the word ALL set a small tremor to the normally rock solid agent.

Her chocolate colored eyes rose to where Caffrey had in fact been working ALL day and with determination in his measured movements was continuing to work still. The man in the black and white suit made no verbal acknowledgment to their boss as the other man passed the doors. It was only the stiffening in his hands that informed the new mom that the CI was aware of the change in personnel status.

Clinton swung to meet his partner’s disquieted gaze. Their eyes quickly spun towards the office behind the railing, they openly watched as the man in the brown suit stored his personal items on his unnerving clean desk. They continued to scrutinize the clipped gestures as they made leaden tracks towards the conference room. Before either junior agent were conscious of their movements they both neigh on ran up the stairs in an effort to join the members of their team. 

“Caffrey,” the ASAC’s voice bit out as if he had inhaled lemons and lime just moments prior. 

Neal stood up at attention making sure to level eye contact with his superior before responding, “Yes Agent Burke.” 

Peter gave a low-key tap to his brown trouser covered leg. This time the older man knew the younger saw it. He taped again. Silence continued to reign in way of non-preferred answer.

Peter closed his doe colored eyes momentarily requesting that testicular fortitude he hoped he had. “I hope you have been hard at work at ALL day.” Before the departments CI could confirm that to be the case, Agents Jones and Berrigan dashed into the tension filled room. 

“Boss,” they said in unison. Peter turned to the junior agents, and then watched as they slipped from their neutral space in front of the TV to Neal’s side of the room. That very deliberate choice was not lost on him.

It was also not lost on Neal whose hands clasped in supplication reddened upon the tightening of the clasp. Hoping to belay any censure that the agents might receive at their very public demonstration of defiance the man in the black and white suit answered with the speed of a gazelle on the plain, “yes Agent Burke. I have created a timeline and work flow for your appraisal.” Peter watched as the pulse in the CI’s throat ticked as the Agents continued to stand with him in concurrence. 

Neal was humbled at the unwarranted gesture of solidarity. His hands relaxed their prone posture a sliver of a sliver, color rose up his neck in confulgence with the tick still pulsating beneath. Peter knew when to concede, he couldn’t escalate the barometer in the room without setting the other two Agents down a path no one in the room could hope to return from.

The ASAC simply pulled out a chair and sat, waving an absent hand to the younger man as if to say, “go ahead.” For the next hour he listened to Neal’s measured prose. There was no showmanship, no flourish, not even a small quip over one of the gentleman he highlighted who name was Flowers. No, the orator provided nothing more than the salient facts and pre requested by Agent Burke theory and conclusion.

Once the enervated meat suit that made of the bones and packaging of Neal concluded the floorshow, he returned to his cemented posture of standing at attention. Weather he was waiting for he leash to be tugged or a newspaper to be snapped, the other man didn’t know. Neal’s brain was the most amazing machine, with all its cogs, springs and bearings. The former Bennett accomplished in two days what would have taken teams of people months.

“We will start on this Monday.” Neal waited in gargoyled silence for further instruction. “Secure the files,” was all Peter could bring his voice to bear knowing he was about to drop an anvil of detonation into a powder keg filled room.

Neal tacitly went about the task provided to him. Taking great care to put everything in such a way that anyone could pull a random piece and know exactly where it should be. His hands made quick work of storing the boxes along the back ledge, when the order bid him fulfilled he returned to the Agents eye sight line.

Peter hated himself for what he had to say next. He hated that he would never ever see blind loyalty and allegiance from team before him after he finished out the orders to the man handling this situation with more grace and sack than he was. 

What he was about to say was cruel; it was physically imprisoning a man whose mental prison was at capacity. If there were any other way to further the parts they were playing with out the tightening of the manacle on the CI’s ankle, he gladly would have done it. He glanced at the younger mans throat, watching for the clonus just below the surface. At least the agent hoped they were playing. Neal had only acknowledged the tap once.

“The government has decided to make tomorrow a holiday. Everyone can start their celebrations and cooking early.” If looks could burn, he would have been ash; the fire raging in the eyes of his junior agents gave him the slightest pause. 

“El and I will be going out of town this year, to visit family upstate.” The conflagration of the inferno from Clinton and Diana threated to tinder him where he stood. Blue eyes the color of ocean; blue eyes that represented a life preserver to the adrift anchor maintained their gaze on the table. 

“We will be leaving tonight.” The unwavering waves of disgust from the agents threaten to bowl him over where he stood. “Because of the holiday…” The ASAC’s voice held strong by a tenuous thread ready to snap, “and because of the lack of trust.” 

His Agents physical ameliorated into fighter’s stance. Neal however, never moved. He never even gave an outward sign he heard what was being said. “Caffrey will be placed on house arrest his anklet locked to a radius of his apartment,” the older man ground out as if he had pepper stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Knowing that the Agents locked and ready postures were meant to defend him was probably the only reason Neal gave more than a nod. “I understand Agent Burke.” The younger man turned his body slightly to include Diana and Clinton in his eye line pleading with them to remain aphonic, to not take up arms in defense of what they considered to be a direct hit to his battleship. His blue eyes filled with beseechment as he implored them to halt whatever advocacy they were to mount. It was the almost begging from Neal not the consequences of talking back to a senior agent that ultimately backed them down. 

Undeterred, Peter labored out his final words to the wooden statue in front of him. “You have until 7:00PM tonight to secure whatever it is you might need to sustain you through the weekend. The lockdown will then remain in affect until 5:00AM Monday morning.” 

Neal nodded his verbal response was a repeat of the previous words, “I understand Agent Burke.” Peter took a chance that Neal might look by way of his hands and tapped his ring finger once. Tap might be too large of a word it was more of a bend. Nothing, his hand fell open to his leg in defeat.

The CI continued to stand at attention. It dawned on Peter that the native of DC was waiting to be dismissed. His brass ball tintibulated in consternation. The ASAC knew that this was hard on them both. The drive to help each other, to save the other from prison, the ones in mind as well as iron. To bring them peace, to bring them whatever the word was when you had no words. Their loyalty to the other steadfast and undeterred. Brown eyes washed over the swirling blue life preservers, wasn’t it? 

“You are dismissed,” three small words was all it took to break the statues stone. Neal headed towards the door before halting his progress at the Agents final words, “And remember Caffrey 7:00PM or the Marshalls return you to prison.” 

Neal simply nodded his understanding of the warning tinged reminder. Peter forced his eyes up to meet his junior agents, he had never had such animosity or antipathy directed to him. He found he welcomed the disgust in their blazing eyes. 

“You are dismissed” he repeated for the second time in as many minutes, his voice rang with a hollowness therefor not heard. Peter watched as Clinton and Diana leap down the stairs like jackrabbits at dusk in an effort to catch their teammate prior to his exit of the federal building. They would offer to bring over holiday meals, request to share movie time with or suggest a board game or two. Anything so that Neal would know he was not alone. They did not share in their bosses barbaricness. Peter also knew Neal would dissuade them. He would be appreciative of their kindness and reject it in a way neither could fight it without joining the ranks of Peter’s cruelty. 

The CI was donning his jacket when the Agents met him at the bottom of the stairwell. Diana knew that the only way to get Caffrey to stop was to entreat his help with a matter she could not resolve on her own. He was incapable of turning down a request for assistance. Being thankful to the universe there was one fly that could find way to the man’s ointment, she seized on the one thing she could. “Neal,” his eyes looked up from the spot on the floor that transfixed him at the use of his first name.

“Would you help me?” He paused in his haste to seek exit from the 51st floor, as she knew he would. “I have to return the Anderson boxes to the basement, and I find that since I am still nursing, I just…” her voice tapered off in embarrassment (She wasn’t really but if it got him to help her she would go with it) as she pointed to her engorged breasts. His eyes saucered a bit at the thought of Diana and her lady business parts.

The gentleman bent to secure the boxes, over his coal head Diana nodded and Clinton agreed, though about what only they knew. Diana took the smaller folders with her and they walked in quiet step to the elevator. The metal box occupants maintained an aphonic almost reverence in its silence ride down to the file area.

As they stepped off the elevator Diana made a big show of thanking the box carrier for his assistance in returning the files their downstairs home, thus saving her the embarrassment of any sort of leakage situation. Diana stepped up to the counter as Neal placed the boxes down. “I am returning my the Anderson files. Caffrey here helped a lady out.” 

“Good Evening Agent Berrigan, Mr. Caffrey,” the lady in black offered in greeting. The Agent watched the lady as lady’s eyes weltered over the blank canvas of the man’s face. Grace continued another assessing look over her friend. His body so tight she feared one small wind and he might snap in half. 

“And they say chivalry is a thing long gone,” her words jocund to the female agent. 

Diana chuckled softly against the settling hum of the conveyance behind her, “not today.” Both sets of female eyes washed over the gentleman who simply continued to stand in sentry. As if prodded by the tip of a lance the Agent looked at her watch, her face flush with discomposure. The man who was staring unfocused at the wall might need to shop for sundries.

He glanced at her agitated action. “Will you have enough time?” His eyes were gentle as he looked at the new mama, “I can drive you to a store and then home,” she offered with kindness that reminded him of the night they spent in the hotel room. 

His smile was gentle, balming to her fatigued soul. “Agent Berrigan, I have been on my own a long time, with time frames tighter than this. Please don’t give it a second thought. “ His lips up ticked the smallest of amounts, “you need to return home to young Theo. Make sure that he is feed.” 

The agent went to interject. “I am a criminal Agent Berrigan, these are the consequences of my actions.” The ignominy of being imprisoned was in full display in the way the man held his shoulders. Diana tried again to interpolate in his discourse of the criminality. “He could have returned me to prison, instead I am allowed to say home.” 

The lady with the schoolmarm bun robotically handed over the logbook for the Agent to sign. Her eyes so full of the grace, she purposefully forced the man across the old wooden countertop to look at her, “mar atá tú?” (As are you?) His candle barley flickered at the kindness radiating at him, if it weren’t for the slight reddening of the tips of his ears she wouldn’t even have known he heard her. 

Without response to the woman in the fisherman’s sweater she wore the day they met, the gentleman stepped back towards the elevator, as he alighted into the moving room he turned without making contact, “Happy Thanksgiving.” The thump as the door closed was nothing compared to drubbing of the ladies heartbeats.

Two assessing sets of brown eyes watched the elevator as it ticked floors towards the lobby. Each floor increasing the pulse in the Irish woman’s neck. The clerk brought her gaze towards the agent; “Agent Berrigan would you like your confirmation now or forwarded to your inbox?” Diana’s eyes were still locked on the cire doors the man disappeared behind.

A subtle throat clear brought the single mother back to the present exchange, “I am sorry, what was that Ms. Carney?” 

Grace’s voice was filled with compassion as she reiterated her words; “Agent Berrigan would you like your confirmation now or forwarded to your inbox?” 

The agent paused for a second before replying absently, “My inbox is fine.” Clearly her mind was on other things. Peter could have obtained permission to allow her or Clinton to hold on to the key for Caffrey’s anklet. That he didn’t, that he chained him to his house like a junkyard dog was Draconian, spiteful and just mean.

The agent stood in some sort of obmusent parley before finally turning to the lady of the space, “please call me Diana.” 

Ms. Carney replied, “I will forward the document to your inbox Diana.” The lady in black stepped back from her counter to transfer the boxes to a locked space before adding, “Have a blessed holiday.” 

Diana halted her progress with an outstretched hand, “you are his friend.” Grace remained quiet not knowing weather that was a statement or question. “I won’t begin to understand. I don’t want to impose. I just…” She searched for the correct words landing on, “he needs a friend.” Without commentary, the file clerk moved the boxes, secured them in the cage under the counter. Then suited up for the frightenly cold fall outside and stepped around the wooden barrier. 

She brought her bunned head up in a call the elevator gesture. Diana did what was asked while the lady pulled down and locked the metal cage doors. They waited shoulder by shoulder as the machine rat a tat tatted its return to the subterranean floor. They stepped in and waited for the doors to close.

When it was clear to Grace that her traveling companion did not realize the location and therefor did not intend too click the lobby button to the right of her hand, she reached her red nails over to do so. She took in the law lady’s profile. It was only then that records clerk spoke, “I take it something happened upstairs today?” Diana turned to the frumpy lady in her utilitarian pants, her plane blouse, her thick sweater and her oversized jacket. For the life of her she couldn’t figure out how Neal would have like such a non descript painting.

“Yes. He was…” Diana then debated if she should say anything. Neal did have a right to privacy and when he hadn’t said anything earlier, it caused her to think maybe she shouldn’t now. Still she knew Mozzie was out of town as he left her a message saying he was sorry to miss his namesake’s first Thanksgiving celebration. “I uh. I am not sure if it is my place to say what happened upstairs.” The records clerk nodded as Diana addended, “he needs a friend.”

The remainder of the ride was made in companionably silence until the pocket of an oversized coat flashed indicating it had received a call. Cautiously the phone owner pulled the noisebox out, Diana watched as she low key turned the volume down before she answered, “Good Evening Tabby, I am still at work. Might I return your call when I am outside?” Whoever Tabby was must have agreed because the lady simply returned her phone to her pocket.

The ladies exited the traveling coach, moved past the lobbies many vacant metal detectors. Diana headed towards the door marked, Parking Garage Access ONLY.” With her hand hovering above the metal handle as a fly hovers over food she stopped and turned in one fluid movement relaying years of dance training, “thank you.” Grace eyed Diana, her express filled with question; she had done nothing that required thanking. “Have a fulfilling weekend,” Diana added before turning the handle. Grace nodded at the oddly worded exchange and thus the agent before exiting the federal building to return her earlier aborted call.

The lady in black removed her phone from her frayed pocket, it really did need to be stitched, she mussed as she pulled at the lose thread. She set about removing her ear cord from her orderly bag and joined the items resting in her hands. With a calming breath that swirled in to the night like ribbons at a parade, her finger scrolled through her contacts list, upon finding Tabby, she paused exhaled another breath and with a steady thumb hit talk. Before the first ring could finish, the person on the other end answered, “Grace we need to talk.”

November 26, June’s Rooftop Apartment (Previously refereed to as Neal’s Apartment) 6:55PM

The hand holding the Cartuxa Pera Manaca with its aromas of raisin and notes of oak was stable; nary a drop spilled as the body attached to the hand sank down into the metal chair on the tea lighted balcony. Neal watched the light closest to him flicker in a macabre dance against the stone background. He took a nip off the ledge of the Waterford glass. For the following five minutes his blue eyes watched the clock to his freedom such as it were ticking down. Five, four, three, two, one. No Happy New Weekend for him.

There was no fanfare, no displays of pyrotechnics as the light on his governmental jewelry flashed a different color informing the felon that he was officially on house arrest. There was just green one second and red the next. The felon knew if he set one foot, manacled or not out of June’s front door Marshalls would descend on him like locusts to the plague. He would be returned to sender, i.e. Sing Sing Correctional. And somehow he doubted, even with their outstanding project Peter would return him to White Collar. Something’s, including him were just not worth the effort.

Neal sipped at the red wine in his hand, letting the oak notes coat his hoarse throat. It wasn’t the first time he was confined to house arrest. He lips rose to the Waterford hovering near his lips he breathed a sigh of relief that he wasn’t wearing orange sipping prison wine.

Well absently he amended he was drinking wine in prison. His eyes skittered about June’s balcony; he welcomed the fustigation of air battling with his errant curl. This was a much nicer prison than he could be locked in. This cell as apposed to the one in Ossining had sheets with thread counts, showers that didn’t present endangerment. It had leftovers from last night’s extraordinary meal and otherworldly desert. 

And it had wine. Many, many bottles of wine. The young man was not prone to an excessive intake of libations. He didn’t like the loss of control. But if ever there was a night for him to make exception to his general rule… More of the Portuguese red was added to the diminished contents of the crystal goblet.

His main phone rang out into the dancing across the table as it heralded a call from, who was it? Uninterested Neal looked down, it was Clinton. The CI knew soon it would be Diana and then the well-intentioned duo would tag team through out the weekend. Eventually he would have to address the White Collar agents and their campaign in contacting him. Eventually however, was not now. He took a larger swallow of the raisiny wine, savoring the glow in his otherwise empty stomach.

“Mar atá tú?” (As are you?) Ms. Carney’s words billowed about his head as smoke to a flame. She was not wrong in her assessment from last night or tonight. He was in Hell. Peter’s incessant tapping replayed on a loop as a soundtrack to the ladies words. Part of him knew that agent was playing the part. That when the older man wheezed the “Get’a al Neal, get’a al” (I forgive you Neal, I forgive you) out into the rain imbrued night, his salted tears mixing with those fallen from the sky, he had meant it. Peter had forgiven him. 

And for whatever it matters to his own mind he meant it when he said “getʹa al Grītus.” (I forgive you Peter) He had forgiven the man for his trespasses. Prison did terrible things to a man’s psyche. Being removed from all that makes you feel safe, that provides you your center is a scary road to travel. Peter had lost his way. He wanted so desperately for Neal to find him. To rescue him from that scary place. The one in your mind where you go when all hope is thought lost. A part of Peter was still adrift in a vast and turbulent sea. 

His Credendum in the system that had so unmercifully conspired against him, had been further devalued the information they were uncovering. The parts they were playing were becoming increasingly hard for the older man to act through. Hence the taping. His one and only way to say to Neal, this is the real me.

Neal wasn’t even sure why he didn’t return any of the additional taps. His heart knew that Peter was telling him; this is us acting on stage. Maybe it was because Neal knew that he had disappointed the older man, that he had failed him. And failing Peter meant consequences. This much needed obedience retraining was part of the consequences. “Ní theipeann ort teaghlach gan iarmhairtí.” (You do not fail a family without consequences.) His uncles words rang through his head, only they sounded like Peter’s voice. 

Maybe he should lay off the wine for a bit. Reheat Ms. Carney’s left overs. As the felon was warming the stew his phone sounded again, he glanced at Diana’s face before going to grab a spoon. As he was sitting down at the table, his other phone sounded from his hip, “tá tú bruscar” (you are trash) his uncle’s words rang again in Peter’s voice. The diner forced the gravy infused bite down before answering the call from “Toby.”

“Yes.” Neal fought to keep his voice even. 

“Neal! Oh thank God. I didn’t know if you would answer.” The man on the other end of the phone shot out without stopping for a breath. Neal audibly swallowed at the unhidden fear in the voice. 

“I’m afraid there isn’t much I can do for you tonight,” The CI said, his blue eyes looked down at the red light pulsing from his ankle. “You answered,” the caller huffed out. “You answered.” 

Neal rubbed his face carding his hand through his hair, “you called, and I am somewhat required to answer.” 

The other caller took a labored breath, “you are somewhat required to answer your work phone. I honestly didn’t know if you would answer this one.” Neal didn’t really have an answer to that statement, because in all honesty he didn’t know if he was going to either. The caller sensed that. 

He grit his teeth then relaxed his jaw, “you didn’t tap back.” Peter didn’t waste anytime jumping to the heart of the matter. 

“I did.” Was Neal’s two-word reply. He had tapped back the first time; therefor to Neal he had tapped. 

Peter raised his eyes supernal. “Neal.” 

The emotional disembowelment in the man’s, “yes” was enough to halt the lawman in his tracks. They could not go on like this. Neal could not go on thinking he was trash. 

Peter augmented what he had originally intended to say, “I don’t have the words for this situation we find ourselves in.” Neal remained obmusent, neither did he. Words, his normal currency of choice, were lost to ether at the moment.

Peter was still talking, Neal forced himself to listen, “I can’t imagine how much the last two days hurt. I know I was cruel. I know was biting and…” 

A cough from the other end of the phone silenced the upstate native. “You were doing you job Peter.” Neal let his breath unfurl like confetti at New Years into the night, “we are doing our jobs, ” he corrected to include and acknowledge that they were a we.

“You didn’t tap back.” Wow, the younger man thought, the fifty year old was really focused on the taping. 

“I will make sure to tap Agent Burke.” Peter stared at the phone he was Agent Burke. Not Peter. This was the criminal informant, not his friend his he still didn’t have a word for what they were.

“Neal, I am sorry that you must bear the brunt of what we are doing.” The listener swirled the remaining contains of his soup porringer with the spoon and continued to listen to the lawman. “This is an incredible burden. And if in order to do it, you can’t tap back, I am going to have to respect that.” The opprobrium in the laugh that escaped the conman’s lips at the word respect cut a path straight to Peter’s heart.

“I will make sure to tap Agent Burke,” the felon repeated his voice almost devoid of emotion. 

“Dammit Neal.” Neal startled at Peter’s break in composure. 

“What?” The younger man asked without recrimination or much anything else in his voice. 

“Don’t you think this is affecting me too?” Neal’s artist fingers continued swirling the spoon around the lake. There was a pause is the talking from the other side. 

Neal knew he should answer, “Yes Agent Burke, I know it is. You were sent to prison because of this. Of course I know it is affecting you.”

Peter stared at the yard ornament that had been a gift from Mozzie, he was fighting to reign in the need to reach through the phone and strangle the man on the other side. “Do you really think that is what I am talking about?” 

Neal continued rowing the soup oar. Silence stretched, oh wait he was supposed to talk again. “As you said to me Agent Burke, you can either be a con or a man. You can’t be both.” 

The agent stopped himself from responding right away. 

He was not disappointed when the younger man continued, “you are trying to be both.” The agent’s head slipped in shame. “Right now, you have to choose.” 

“Is that what you are doing?” 

Neal thought about that before he answered Peter’s, he could have given any answer in the world, he could spin in, he could pull a quote from Moz’s Unabridged Quotations and Notations Manual, he could say yes and assuage the man of his misplaced guilt. He could provide any of those answers, yet he went with the one in his third heart, “No.” 

Peter’s hand gripped the phone. Hoping the other man would continue. Knowing it would continue to pincushion his heart in the process. “I will never be a man. Only a con.” Peter heard rather than saw his phone crack under the pressure his hand was placing on it. This was Neal unvarnished, the unedited, and the most honest. 

“Oh Neal,” the fifty year old wheezed out, his voice heavy with the burden of rain about to break through a bathypelagic sky. Blue eyes started ahead at the wooden bowls Ms. Carney discovered under the sink last night. After they talked long in the witching hour she rescued them, filling one with water, then scooping dirt out of June’s planter filling the other with earthen mixture.

Peter was silent for so long that Neal didn’t think there was anything that would come after ‘Oh Neal.” “That is simply not true, ” The upstate native offered with fight in his voice. The soup swirling halted; his blue eyes again sought the bowls the one holding the dirt and the one holding water.

“You are a man,” before Peter could continue with his oration, the younger man’s crass words silenced him.

“Having junk just means I am male. The measure of what makes a man is a different yard stick.” 

The older man smiled and stifled a chuckle, “a yard stick, huh?” Maybe it was the wine or maybe it was the night, but Neal let a chuckle escape him.

“Yard sticks aside,” Peter, said with no small amount of mirth, “you are the measure of a man. You saved me Neal. Even when I didn’t want to save myself. When I fought you, when I tried to break you. You saved me. And you continue to save me. Everyday,” the merriment over the measuring of their membrum virile evaporated as both men ran hands over their faces, “that is the measure of a man.” 

Peter took a deep breath before going all in, “if you have batten down your hatches. If you have to revert to a place inside you where you are safe…” his voice trailed off for a second, “then that is what you have to do and I will respect that decision and I will continue to respect you.”

Neal pushed back the chair from the table. He moved to stand above the bowls, his eyes skirted between the dirt and the water. “Thank you Peter.” They might have been just three words, three small, simple words. But they meant the world to the older man. 

Neal could hear Elizabeth in the background, “Satch, come on, don’t you want to put your leash on? We are going for a ride.” 

“I know you have to go, I can hear Elizabeth and Satchmo in the background.” He released a trapped breath, “please have enjoy your family time.” 

Peter couldn’t leave it like that, “You are my family Neal. I am sorry this year the holiday can’t include you.” Neal’s heart increased in speed his thoughts focusing on ‘you are my family.’ Peter was talking again, “please don’t spend this time alone Neal. Please.”

Who was he to spend this time with? Neal looked at the bowls as if they were the eyes of a storm. 

“Good boy,” El’s hoarse voice could be heard again through the crackling phone line. 

“I have to go Neal.” Peter walked inside to join his wife and golden lab. 

“Good Night Peter.” 

Peter smiled the barest hint of what in some circle might be known as a smile, he was still Peter. 

Neal set the phone down on the table, the bowls continuing to hold his gaze. His eyes alighted to the clock, 8:35PM. A little late for a polite invitation. Those bowls did not represent polite invitation, they were instruments of ritual and… The coal head pulled out his other phone from the table and dialed a number new to its rolodex. 

November 26, Grace Carney’s Loft, 8:35PM

“Le do thoil, níl mé ag iarraidh é seo a dhéanamh liom féin.” (Please, I don’t want to do it by myself.) Neal didn’t waste time with pleasantries; they were so far past that now. 

“Ba mhaith leat é a dhéanamh anocht?” (You want to do it tonight?) Her voice resolute and unswerving as she questioned. 

“Sea.” (Yes.) He shook his head in addition to the one word, even thought she couldn’t see it. 

“Táim ar mo bhealach,” (I am on my way,) Neal thought those were the most beautiful words he had ever heard.

For sometime he auscultated to the emptiness of the space after the phone call. Not having any idea where the lady was coming from or how long it would take her to get there, the former Bennett exited the apartment and headed down the long flight of stairs that would lead to the front door he couldn’t exit for fear of frothing Marshall’s. 

The native of DC sat on the couch ensconced in the safety of the dark for what he guestamated was an hour’s time. Eventually he heard a resolute knock on the front door, the one that signified he could not go back from the choice he made in his heart. The man rose from the couch and with stiffened joints moved to the door. Making sure to maintain a no Marshall distance he opened the wooden barrier.

“Go raibh maith agat as teacht,” (Thank you for coming.) Neal was proud of the fact his voice was puissant in its delivery. 

Her brown eyes looked into his blue ones, “níl tú i do aonar.” (You are not alone.) He was startled when she reached to touch him. So careful was she to not make contact. Her fingers slide into his, she repeated with resolution, “níl tú i do aonar.” (You are not alone.) With a tight squeeze she released his hand and headed to the foot of the stairs. 

Neal joined the lady and they made the long uphill climb in comfortable silence. She even let her eyes wash over the darkness to the side of them. It wasn’t until they crossed the threshold into the rooftop apartment that the man noticed the woman’s appearance. The white collar CI had been so relieved to see the records clerk that he didn’t really notice her sartorial choices. 

Her normally bunned hair was down, bouncing after back in large curls. Her hideously ugly glasses were gone. She was in green cargo pants and her trusty Doc Martens. Neal’s eyes watched as she removed her plain car coat, a plainer cardigan that bore none of the resemblance to her previous monstrosities to reveal a tee shirt. A black tee shirt (because she was still her) with little bell sleeves and a small flare that settled right at her hips.

His guest was interpellating something he realized. “Do you have towels?” The coal head nodded in the affirmative and headed out the door near the fridge towards the linen closet in the hall to secure the cotton pieces she requested. The lady walked over to the bowls, whispering something above them, only she and the contents could hear.

By the time Neal had returned Grace had already placed the bowls in an open space out back. He noted the goose bumps on her arms as the wind hustled by the naked limbs. The Irishman handed her the towels, she placed them palm up in front of the wooden service ware. Grace turned to him her voice filled with a bevy of compassion, “ar mhaith leat dom tosú?” (Do you want me to start?) Not thinking he could lend a steady voice to a reply Neal nodded his head in the affirmative.

With a grace that lived up to her name the lady knelt down behind the towel. Neal watched her kneeling on the cold ground her back peaking out as the wind whipped at the unhidden skin, his eyes took in the markings of a different tattoo, his mind brought him back to that night in the dirt with his uncle. He swallowed down both thoughts rusticating in his head. 

With an unsteady set of limbs he was not accustomed to he knelt beside her. She bowed in veneration at the first bowl, susurrating, “Is mise ceann leis an salachar.” (I am one with the dirt.) Her head up rose as she immersed her hands fully in the dirt repeating, “is mise ceann leis an salachar.” (I am one with the dirt.)

Her hands washed over themselves in the earth. “Plandaí mé féin.” (I plant myself.) Her hair whipped about her as the wind rustled through the air at an accelerated speed. Ms. Carney was not to be deterred, she continued the process, “nigh mé mé féin leis an salachar” (I wash myself with the dirt) her voice was strong, “ionas go mbeidh mé saor.”(So that I am free.)

Even knowing what was to come next, Neal flinched as she took the dirt and scrubbed her face with it, all the while repeating the words, “ionas go mbeidh mé saor.” (So that I am free.) When she concluded the with the dirt, she placed the rounded dinnerware in front of him. His blue eyes bored into the earth affront him, thoughts of his uncle then Peter ping pong there way through his mind.

“Níl tú i do aonar,” (You are not alone,) her words gentle in delivery. No one save the girl to his left had ever told him he wasn’t alone. Not his mom, not Moz, not Kate, not Sara, not Peter, no one save the ladies with dirt mushed into her face as if she were using it as a detoxifier. Wasn’t that what it was he mused?

Neal’s hand shook as he placed them in the earth repeating the process she had taken. When he brought the dirt to his face offering the, “ionas go mbeidh mé saor,” (So that I am free,) he noticed that there was water making silent paths down the center. When he looked to his left he saw that Ms. Carney had similar tracks. With steadier hands, he placed the bowl behind the water. 

The Irish lady pulled the water in front of her where the dirt had been and bowed, “is mise ceann leis an uisce,”(I am one with the water,) Her head lifted, her hair cascading around her in wild curls as the wind beat a heavy torrent at her tresses. “Déanaim ancaire orm féin,” (I anchor myself,) she said as she fully submerged her hands in the bone chillingly cold water. 

“Nigh mé mé féin leis an uisce,” (I wash myself with the water,) her finger were bluing as she set about washing them while repeating “nigh mé mé féin leis an uisce.” (I wash myself with the water,) Her otherwise solid voice was the barest tinge of sad as she said, “ionas go mbeidh mé glan.” (So that I am clean.) Neal couldn’t contain the shutter his body racked out when she splashed the water over her face, mixing it in with the dirt, “ionas go mbeidh mé glan.” (So that I am clean.) 

He repeated the venerations as she had. Blue eyes stared at his hands seeped in the freezing water he continued washing in a way he hoped he would finally be clean. When he brought the water to his face to mix it with the dirt, he could see that the tears adorning her face were no longer spider webs of water, but a full torrent scourging the cheeks below.

Her smaller hands grabbed the dirt bowl, his larger the water. The Irish duo mixed them together all the while saying in unison, “ionas go mbeidh mé saor.” With each bowl now an equal mixture of earth and water they took the mud and washed their faces. “Ionas go mbeidh mé saor” (So that I am free.) found its why into the wind as thunder crepitated a war cry from the sky above. 

When the bowls were empty of contents the man in his suit pants and the lady in her cargo’s repeated the bows showing honor and reverence for the process and proffered their prayers to the universe. At the coda of the ritual they stacked the bowls making no further move to action. Her hair continued to dance a jig in the wind, his curl bounced in tune. 

November 27, 2013, FBI White Collar, 7:15AM

The man in the conference room thought no one noticed him, because there was no one in the office to notice him. There was no one to notice that the files that Neal had painstakingly gone through, arranged, written notes for, created a timeline with and summed up conclusions for were being reviewed by his eyes.

No one noticed how the man took photocopies of the files, the notes, the timeline and the conclusions. No one noticed him putting the files back in the boxes, careful to return them in such a way that when there was someone to notice, they would look to all undisturbed.

No one noticed when the door to Agent Burkes office was opened, when his files were searched one by one, his desk drawers emptied for inspection, his emergency shaving kit taken apart, the framed photo of he and Elizabeth unsleeved to see if there was something hiding behind it.

No one noticed when the desk belonging to Neal Caffrey was searched, his desk emptied of contents, his sketch pad thoroughly turned inside out, his Greek philosopher bust shinned but otherwise unadulterated, no one noticed when his rubber band ball was taken apart and then put back together.

No one noticed.

No one noticed until a phone in a pocket of a coat hanging on a rack somewhere in the Upper part of the state started beeping like a fire alarm gone haywire.

Then someone noticed the man who thought himself unnoticed in the conference room. The man who had taken the bait of the files painstakingly arranged in such a way that the intended viewer would draw the conclusion the preparer wanted them too.

Then someone noticed how the files, the notes and the timelines were carefully copied and returned to their place on the ledge. Then someone noticed when their office was opened, their files searched, their desk ransacked, their dob kit rifflied through and with a tick in his cheek, someone noticed how the photo of he and he beloved wife was defiled.

Then someone noticed, when the desk of their partner (yes partner) had been searched, his desk emptied, his sketch pad tousled, his bust rustled, then someone noticed when that infernal rubber band was taken apart and the man saw the note inside. Then someone noticed how the man’s hand shook when then put it back together.

Someone noticed.

Had the man noticed anything other than what he was supposed to notice he would have seen the camera in the molding of the conference room and the camera in the picture on the wall in the ASAC’s office. Had the man noticed the bust he ruffled good-naturedly he would have seen that Socrates eyes were watching him.

He thought no one noticed as he exited the doors of White Collar his hands shaking in fury at the one word on the notepaper inside that stupid rubber band ball. ‘Gotcha.’ But someone had noticed and that someone reached into his bag and pulled out a special phone with recently cracked sides. 

The man at 351 Riverside Drive answered on the first ring, “Peter?” 

He continued to be Peter. It might have been his imagination or wishful thinking or it might be the truth, but the Peter he had offered sounded lighter, less filled with pain. “We got him Neal.” The agent breathed fire like a dragon in his cave, “he took the bait.”

The man hadn’t noticed that there was a playbill from a performance of ‘As You Like It’ in Neal’s drawer or if he did, he didn’t feel it important. Which meant that the man also hadn’t noticed the highlighted words inside, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances’ and one man in his time plays many parts.” Because if the man had noticed he would have known that the White Collar offices on the 51st floor were a stage and he was merely a player.

A/N: Just in Case…

Irish to English Translations Are As Follows:

Mar atá tú = As are you

Ní theipeann ort teaghlach gan iarmhairtí = You do not fail a family without consequences

Tá tú bruscar = You are trash 

Le do thoil, níl mé ag iarraidh é seo a dhéanamh liom féin = Please, I don’t want to do it by myself

Ba mhaith leat é a dhéanamh anocht = You want to do it tonight

Sea = Yes

Táim ar mo bhealach = I am on my way

Go raibh maith agat as teacht = Thank you for coming

Níl tú i do aonar = You are not alone

Ar mhaith leat dom tosú? = Do you want me to start?

Is mise ceann leis an salachar = I am one with the dirt

Plandaí mé féin = I plant myself

Nigh mé mé féin leis an salachar = I wash myself with the dirt

Ionas go mbeidh mé saor = So that I am free

Is mise ceann leis an uisce = I am one with the water

Déanaim ancaire orm féin - I anchor myself

Nigh mé mé féin leis an uisce = I wash myself with the water

Ionas go mbeidh mé glan = So that I am clean.

Ionas go mbeidh mé saor = So that I am free

Shelta to English Translations Are As Follows:

Get’a al Neal, get’a al = I forgive you Neal, I forgive you 

Getʹa al Grītus = I forgive you Peter


	10. Sometimes people keep parts of themselves hidden and secret, sometimes wicked and unkind parts, but often brave or wild or colorful parts, cunning or powerful or even marvelous, beautiful parts, just locked up away at the bottom of their hearts…”

“Sometimes people keep parts of themselves hidden and secret, sometimes wicked and unkind parts, but often brave or wild or colorful parts, cunning or powerful or even marvelous, beautiful parts, just locked up away at the bottom of their hearts…”  
~ Catherynne M. Valente, The Girl Who Fell Beneath

TRIGGER WARNING/READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED: This chapter may not be suitable for all audiences. This chapter contains violence.

December 3, 2013, June’s Rooftop Apartment (Previously refereed to as Neal’s Apartment) 4:55AM

His tie was straight beneath his slate gray vest. His jacket buttoned tight atop the tie so straight and the vest so gray. His shoes were burnished to fluoresce his countenance flickering across the brim of the nary a scuff filled Berluti’s. His coat balanced off his shoulders hanging as a mantle to its knight. And his hat, his hat was in his hand. 

His cerulean eyes were focused on one thing and one thing only. His ankle. The White Collar CI stood at the foot of the wooden stairs, a Marshall safe distance from the door. Waiting. Five, four, three, two, one… The eyes blinked. Where was the green? The bling on his ankle cuff was still red. Neal scuttled the space in front of the stairs. Granted it wasn’t the world’s longest pace. It was one stride, kick, turn, one stride, kick, turn, rinse and repeat.

The brusque strider wore the hardwood flooring down for the following five minutes. At 5:04:55AM blue eyes again sought the rubber tether stretched across his scared ankle. Five, four, three, two, one. Stop locked gazes with him. He waited for go. And waited. Sweat was starting to drip down his Bassistoni covered back. His artist hands lent to quiver as if tree branches caught in a dance with a winter wind. The swell of nausea rocked the confines of his boat and…

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP. Neal awoke with a start, his heart racing like opening day at the Belmont Park racetrack. His hands were twisted in the covers as if he were learning to make a pretzel sold on the boardwalk, his unfocused eyes darted around the room like a pinball machine gone awry. 

Neal forced himself to slow his body’s reaction to the nightmare. He made a conscious effort to employ the one tactic that worked when his body engaged scrimmage with his mind. Breathe. In through the nose, hold for eight, out through the mouth, hold for eight. The claws unfurled from the flannel bed covers, his heart slowed down its frenetic tempo and his vision focused on the one thing most important at that moment. His FBI approved shackle.

Green. The light was green. The bed-sitter felt his balls drop back into place. With measured steps he alighted the bed and headed into the bathroom. There was only one opening day. He needed to be the best he had ever been. The thespian shed his nightclothes, reached in past the simple cream unadorned shower curtain and turned the water all the way to the left. Making sure the cascading water was set to scalding the man folded under the water. He needed to wash the remnants of the bête noire away.

December 3, 2013, FBI White Collar, 6:25AM

Neal stepped onto the elevator that would take him to the 51st floor with a poise born of years on a stage. He displayed the comportment of a man headed to the office. Nary an inkling hovered around him that this was the day, the day the mice would play. His often given to ticking legs remained unmoving for the duration of the upwards climb. His hyperactive mind with all its whizzes and wures lay still as the morning water as the moon hovers to a changing of the guard, his heartbeat a balanced 81 beats per minute, his physiognomy the very picture of serenity. 

His calm blue-sky eyes never wavered in their survey of the doors ahead. As the traveling cart eased to a stop, the felons face became streams of foam and welter. His body that of a marionette on the strings. The actor’s feet took on the leaden shuffle of the oppressed as he tread onto into the spotlight.

Socrates stood erect in all his proud marbleness just as his transient tablemate had left him. The philosopher’s hidden monocle safe atop his left eye the young man in the gray Brioni noted. The man with the debonair flair papers were in the same position as he left them leafed over themselves in a quarter inch separated fan.

His well-used sketchpad lay still in the left drawer with the red marker peaking out from behind the last page. In fact the only evidence that CI’s desk had been pillaged and plundered was the rubber band ball was not as it had been. Neal was careful with the pattern on the ball. His danger, danger warning a head alarm that someone had ransacked his space. The present pattern of the sphere was not as the one it held prior to deconstruction.

His grin was fleeting, his snap obstructed from view by the folds of his Tom Ford Cashmere Chesterfield coat. Peter would be happy the job had reached the second stage. The former Bennett was happy the job reached the next plateau, the fighters dance he and the agent were locked into was as eviscerating as it was disemboweling. 

With a steady hand Neal removed his beloved black temple wool Stetson, perfect for the early flutters of snow that tapped their way out of the sky this morning. He took great care to fold his overcoat across the back of his chair. Just in case he wanted it in the view of Socrates CCTV.

When the ASAC arrived some thirty minutes later he found his CI exactly where they planned. This time when the agent tapped his ring finger to his freshly pressed pants he saw the action mirrored in the man across from him. Peter swallowed the relief down that little finger lift gave his heart, the entirety of his soul really. They could do this. They would do this. They had to do this. With one resolute eye lock offering credence in the other the actors commenced the performance.

“Caffrey?!” Peter’s deep baritone voice bellowed echoing off the glass walls and windows that lined the little room at top the White Collar division stairs. The man in the dark gray suit shot up out of his chair, like a well-dressed Jack in the Box, making sure to round his shoulders in the barest of bare hints of cowering under a brutal wind. Blue eyes maintained a downward glance at the table. His manicured hands were enfolded a front of his assets, the universal male sign of protecting oneself from forthcoming harm.

Peter ground his molars, absently wondering if his dental coverage covered reconstruction of whittled teeth. Neal was acting he had to remind himself a few times before he followed up the vociferate. “You know you don’t get any sort of extra credit for coming in early or staying late. There is no magic time amount that will right all that is wrong with you.” 

Peter scrunched his toes at the words he was spiting out like an enraged bull at tournament. Right all that is wrong with you. He wondered in that moment how many time Neal had been told there was something wrong with him. “All I ask is for you to just do your job.” The older man took at steadying breath and went for it. “ And soon we will both be done with each other.”

Brown eyes washed over the face in front of him waiting for a shorting light flicker or horror movie flinch or ever a deepening of the cower of his shoulders. Nothing. Neal just stood like the Atlas in front of Rockefeller Center. Peter’s heart panged once in desolate sadness at the accurateness of that description. Neal was carrying the weight of their world on his undeniably broad shoulders.

The ASAC went to speak again; it was only then that he heard the venom filled, “that can’t come soon enough.” Peter was all together not acting when his jaw dropped. The actors knew for the reactions to be genuine that a certain amount of improve had to be employed. Still the nettle stung deep when it contacted with him.

“Caffrey. I would be very careful with what I said next.” The agent warned his criminal informant his eyes raging like a five alarm fire, his hand curled into pugilist form before crumpling like fallen balls of paper to his sides. 

Neal was worried about Peter. Yes the agent was acting, but he knew deep down that it lacerated the man’s very being to hurl cruelty around like dung in barn. They had so recently found their way to peace that this had to be weighing on the older man. He could see it in the way the upstate native let his right knee fall so that his body was just that much protected from a direct hit. Somehow, though the work released felon wasn’t sure of the how they would make it through this.

“Or what Agent Burke?” Neal’s eyes moved in direct line to the man opposite him. Peter’s eyes grew wide with fury at the careless flippancy with which the man tossed the glove down. Before the fifty year old could even tap, Neal did. His heart skipped a beat at the fact the younger man initiated the finger movement.  
The older man worked to settle the rat a tat tat in his chest while moving his wedding ring adorned finger in acknowledgment.

He watched as Neal subtly crossed two fingers, their agreed upon cue. Their intended audience had arrived. Brown eyes locked with blue. Whether it was faith or trust or a mixture of both neither knew, but they went all in for the Tony Award for best Broadway (ok Federal Plaza) performance. “Or you can spend the reminder of your time in prison.” Peter allowed his chest to huff out the air fustigating in his lungs with such a merciless blow.

The felon with the calm movements of a lake at dawn and tranquil grace of a ballerina stepped around the large barrier obstructing the space between them. His three-piece suit adorned body found the open area affront the television screen. His five foot eleven body turned on dancers toes. 

Even knowing what he intended to do Peter had to work at not shuttering against the sight. If ever there was a moment he needed that testicular fortitude to clang into action. This would be it. Neal rose his boxer’s arms so that his hands were clasped behind his head, his painters fingers interlaced.

The younger man could feel the change in the air. This turn was a weapon, a cause for suffering for the man in back of him. His gut had to be crashing to the shore in waves of agony. The short journey to him would be filled with torment and recrimination. Neal hoped that Peter would also see it as a sign of the unflinching conviction he had in the lawman. This was the blind faith, literally turning your back on someone and trusting him or her to do right by you.

Peter had never cuffed Neal in such an impersonal manner; he always did it face to face, like men. Despite the magnitude of irons he always wanted the younger man to know there was a respect held. The agent moved on slightly sluggish legs towards the man whose erect back was to him. 

As he was retrieving his handcuffs from the holder at the nestle of his hip Peter leaned in and in a voice only the sable haired man could hear whispered, “I’m so sorry Neal.” One lone finger tapped back at him. Peter swallowed the lump in his throat. This was blind faith. This was I trust you. This was the very visual definition of the word unconditional.

For a second the agent thought back to the Missouri (not a field) conversation with the little man with funny glasses and an enormously understanding heart who had in a strange confluence of the universe become his confessor. “You didn’t lose your faith in Neal… you lost faith in yourself…you lost faith in yourself and you just couldn’t understand or reconcile that Neal had not lost faith in you.”

Clicking the first cuff around his wrist the lawman felt the give in the limb. Neal was relaxing his muscles so that the agent would know this was all part of the act, he didn’t want Peter hurt. The felon was trying in everyway to say I believe in you. Neal hadn’t lost faith in him. He was illustrating that in ways even he could never paint on a canvas that the faith was there. Peter lent a gentle finger inside the palm. They would make it through this. 

With tintibulating brass balls he locked the metal restraint on the indomitable man before him. In some many ways, this young felon, whose actual age he still didn’t know continued to further his education on what the measure of a man, was. “Neal Caffrey…” What ever else Peter was going to say was halted by a chorus of voices. 

The agent blocked them out until the felon was secure. Only then did he turn around towards the waiting trio of federal agents, making sure to keep the CI just in front of him. No matter how this played out, no matter when he and Neal were able to explain all to Diana and Clinton, Peter knew he would never get their unaltered loyalty back. The look in their respective eyes of sorrow and revulsion would forever be seared into the leaders psyche. 

It was Special Agent in Charge Kyle Bancroft who spoke up with demure delivery, “Agent Burke, if you mean to take Caffrey in to custody, please do so with as little disruption to the division as possible.” Peter’s nod to the man in charge was perfunctory at best. With a guiding hand he steered himself and the man in the metal towards the exit of the suddenly very claustrophobic room. 

Neal kept his head held up high he almost sauntered down the stairs. Peter thought that might have been a leprechaun ankle tap he gave before landing on the main floor. His well chiseled face just this side of happy. Peter’s countenance was quite the opposite; it was shroud in a mask of grim determination. “What’s with the stupid grin? What are you so happy about?” The lawman grit out in a huff. 

As the were nearing the main doors, agents and support personal that had just come returned from the last early morning seminar of the year cleared the way as if he were Moses parting the crimson tide. The ASAC could feel rather than see the close pursuit of his subordinates. The fire emanating from their eyes was flaying into his soul as if he alone were the prized piece of steak at the annual WC BBQ.

The captor and the captive just cleared the glass doors as the elevator opened to an exiting FBI staff member. Brown eyes locked on the scene in front of her as missile honed in on target. For a split second Neal could see the terror in her much too worried eyes at the sight of him in cuffs. The Irishman wanted more than anything to assure the woman it was a play staged for an audience of one. Unfortunately, he could do nothing but engender her to look him in the eyes and pass a long silent communication that he was ok.

Watching this unfold like snapshots in a picture book, both past and present. Peter made a split second decision. Whatever else was going on the agent could not leave the unfolding situation to the lady’s last look at the man in the three piece suit be one of him in custody. Peter pushed Neal the rest of the way into the traveling cart. 

He turned around with enlarged chest to block the agents who were following him from entering and the lady effectively from exiting. In hindsight, if that had been a real arrest or detainment he should have never turned his back on the felon. The brown haired man reached over and blindly hit the button that would close the doors on smoldering anger filled faces of Agents Berrigan and Jones. 

The fifty year old made sure to click the button that would land them at the floor housing interrogation and holding rooms. Neal backed up so that his hands were at the wall. Ms. Carney didn’t need to see them. She didn’t need to flashback to whatever she had seen in her head a second before. The air hung like the time between when the firework left the barge and when it went to explode.

Peter looked at the lady always in her black now days, remembering a time she was awash with bright colors. His eyes dipped to the white line across her neck, remembering a time when it too was a wash with color. Her head had been bowed when they found her, as if she had simply nodded it down in prayer. Crimson ichor splashed about her chest, soaking the tattered remnants of the pretty pink camisole she wore.

The cuffs were so imbedded in her wrists they had made the agonizing decision to wait and let the medical professionals remove them. The agent knew in that moment exactly what the lady always in black was flashing back too. He knew what the sight of Neal in irons was doing to his psyche; he could only imagine the horrors it was doing to hers.

For a moment no words rent the air. Peter allowed the young man his errant curl bouncing about to do whatever it was that was needed to sooth the battered soul of the lady trapped in the box with them. Blue eyes worked to find brown. The coal head needed to know the woman in the schoolmarm bun was ok. Brown eyes looked up at him, her face a radiant if unsteady canvas of understanding far to much understanding he should have realized then. She smiled a smile that was just for him. 

Not wanting to drag her into this production of White Collar: To Catch a Criminal Boss further he used two simple words from his vast polyglot lexicon, two specific words intended for a listener of one, he made sure his cadence was to low, “uisce” (water) and “salachar.” (dirt) Since they were in a foreign language he knew that to anyone who might view the camera footage it would look like he was clearing his throat. Her only for him smile let the man in gray know she received the message. 

Neal allowed his body to relax into the con; he and Peter needed to make this look good (or bad, very bad.) “Agent Burke,” a cocky voice teased, “it’s not like you to endanger civilians.” His blue eyes twinkled with a mixture of bedevilment and deridement. “I am a felon you know. What if I turned violent?” Two sets of brown eyes bored into him. One wide with consternation and exhaustion at the parts they were playing and one with restrained disapproval.

Peter walked right up to Neal, he placed his arm under his chin, anchoring it down with his opposite hand applying just enough pressure that the man whose head was now against the wall heeded the warning, “Enough Caffrey, enough.” Neal could feel the warmth of Peter’s breath cascade over his face. He could see the lines beneath his eyes twitch. 

He could feel the other man searching his treasure map, just to make sure it was an act. Peter knew it was not like Neal to intentionally place a civilian let alone someone he so obviously cared about in the line of fire or to tickle a bugbear fear. Brown eyes washed over that tell tale smirk bouncing back at him. Neal wondered how to in the moment to tap all was well to the agent. He blinked his eyes in Morse Code. TAP.

December 3, 2013, FBI Interrogation and Holding, 7:25AM

Mercifully the cart found the floor that was the departing destination of the White Collar duo. As the agent and the felon exited the fifty year old pushed down tight on the dandy mans metal bracelets. This frottage action resulted in angry red welts railroad tracking a path along the manacled mans wrists. Neal knew this was part of the performance. He was also cognizant of the fact their play presently only had a live audience of one, Ms. Carney. A woman he knew to have permanent scars on her wrist brought on by actions similar to the ones in her viewfinder.

His ears reddened as he worked to fight the dueling sides of heart vs. mind. In the process of battle his wrists tightened unintentional with the increased blood flow. This only caused the friction and scrape along his limbs to increase, he could feel them slide with an oozing ease. 

The felon worked at his reigning in his erratic breathing. The ASAC was aware of the tightening that had suddenly taken up residence in his captive’s hands. Neal had thus far maintained a calm restful pose, not wanting to injury himself or the agent.

When he felt blood along the cuff it dawned on the lawman the change in the younger mans animation. Peter’s camera flashed on her wrist dripping blood as if a bolus bag had broken. Swallowing the bile that worked its way into the confines of his throat, the six foot two man moved his sizeable wall to block the DC native’s hands from the ladies view. 

“I am sorry you had to be involved in this Ms. Carney.” And he was. She could see it in his memory filled eyes. He was seeing the silhouette of her body as it hung from the hook like severed meat in the butcher shop freezer. “If there are any repercussions from this delay, please advise me and I will speak with your supervisor.”

Grace could not think of an appropriate verbal reply to the White Collar ASAC the man who had sat with her while the paramedics worked to remove the imbedded metal from her skin. Anything she would offer at that point would not be appropriate for the situation (if there were even words for this sort of morning tete a tete.) 

The lady in black simply reached over and clicked the close door button, her sweater pulled up slightly at the movement, her scars peeking out in a reddened reminder of an event long past. She sagged against the wall in an effort to assuage the weight of the stones upon her soul. 

“I don’t think she accepted your apology Agent Burke.” Neal taunted in growing in disrespect for the man in the Brooks Brothers suit. “What have I told you before?” His blue eyes danced around like fairies at firelight, “Its all in the approach and the delivery.” With a discordant hand the autocratic agent propelled the felon towards the waiting interrogation room. 

Neal skipped it was his first day at pre school. Peter bulldozed into Neal’s back like a wrecking ball to a derided building. With malice aforethought the brown eyed made sure that the felon’s shoulder collided was a resounding crunch and munch into jagged edges of the metal doorframe. The lawman then slammed the CI none to gently into the chair the inside of his thigh crashing into the sides of the seat before spiting out, “what do you think of that approach and delivery?”

With a sack tintibulating in beacons of agony and hands slippery with blood the felon raised a smug mug to his abuser, “I would give it an 8.3. Simple violence is so pedestrian Agent Burke.” Peter’s brown eyes blinked in slow motion as the man in the chair continued, “It lacks a certain flourish, a certain refinement. Maybe if you had twisted my elbow or knocked the back of knee or even flicked my ear.” 

The only thing the agent could think to do was raise his eyebrow in an effort to halt this longwinded answer to a somewhat rhetorical question. “A higher score would require a certain gusto, some juzz if you will. It simply…” Neal felt the blood dripping inside in his hands “lacks color and sound. Maybe if you put a bit more bluster into your cheeks.” His laugh rang off the walls as his continued to antagonize the White Collar ASAC. “Maybe if found your inner tempest and really raged like a midnight wind.” 

Peters face was almost the color of the Christmas light going up outside the building, his groan held all the timber of John Deere on the field. “Oh nice rosy glow there Agent Burke. Good guttural growls.” The felon encouraged the lawman, “Way to rise to the challenge. I amend my previous score to 9.1” Blue eyes continued coruscating in maniacal merriment twinkles. 

The following “Caffrey” was ground out so hard Neal paused for a second to make sure Peter was not going to crack a denture. The lawman spoke in hushed (almost as if he didn’t have the air to lend) words to the man perched on the metal interrogation room chair, “I am going uncuff your right hand. If you try anything. Any shenanigans at all. I swear to you…” Spit from Peter’s lips dripped hot on the young man’s ear, “I will break it.” 

Neal response to imminent danger toward an important limb was an effulgent smirk and eyes flashbulbing with unaltered flippancy. Though to the CI’s credit he stilled his hand he didn’t want either of them physically hurt beyond the swath of blood already draping his hands. “If you wanted to hold my hand Agent Burke, all you had to do was ask.” Neal flirted with the older man wagging his eyes with a come hither invitation. 

The felon’s body shuttered a bit as the right cuff dug a deep sandcastle hole into his dampened skin before it slide off with a sickening pop sound. The law man none to gently ironed the felons hands in front of him, the click bouncing off the metal surface below reverberating around the room like fireworks at the forth of July. 

With considerable force Peter slammed the soaked in sanguine hands down as he secured the cuffs tight into the ring on the table. Neal could see droplets of blood spoiling into the once crisp white shirt at his wrists, working a macabre rain dance into his suit cuffs, one lone trickle sliding across the button of the once fine gentleman’s jacket.

“Good bye Caffrey.” The look of revulsion nearing the need to void his stomach contents was clear as the fifty year old took leave of the interrogation room. Neal closed his eyes for a moment. He wanted to join Peter in the men’s room. The need to heave was great. While every man might say they have cast iron balls, they are really just made up flesh and blood. And when they collide with a metal surface at just the right (or wrong angle.) 

If the five foot eleven man was being honest with himself. It wasn’t just the cup check hit that made him want to eject the minimal contents of his stomach. It was the emotional evisceration of the last few scenes in the play. Her brown eyes wide in terror at him in cuffs. Peter’s look of devastation as he realized that he had made a bloodied mess of the artists wrists. The look that passed between Ms. Carney and the agent. The felon knew that ride had not been easy on any of the riders.

The second that the six foot two man exited the door he walked into a waiting wall of agents. Clinton Jones in his black and white Ralph Lauren and Diana Berrigan in her winter blue Ann Taylor with a muted loose gray blouse to accommodate her expanded attributes. To complete the ballium of FBI stone was Special Agent in Charge Kyle Bancroft.

“Agent Burke, on what grounds are you detaining Mr. Caffrey?” The Special Agent in Charge interpellated his subordinate with a subtlety in his gravel voice that implied that there had better be an answer he found satisfactory to the events of the previous half hour. The senior lawman didn’t really understand what was going on and required an explanation. 

“Impertinence.” Peter replied calmly as if discussing the weather of a summer day in June. Diana’s chocolate eyes saucered, her arms reached to cross more in an effort to protect Peter from her than her from Peter. Clinton’s jaw ticked in understated fury as he assessed the leader he once in held great esteem. Peter felt a shrivel in his pants at the scorn emanating from his once close knit all for one and one for all team. 

“Believe or not Agent Burke, impertinence is not a detainable reason.” The director explained with a small uptick in his lips. The director paused to take in the ASAC, his eyes were bruised, his face was tight, his body looked to be held together by a fraying thread. This was a man nearing the end of his limits.

“Boss, can we go in and talk to Caffrey?” Clinton and Diana beseeched their supervisor from their flanked positions of the man in his favorite brown suit. They looked like animated version of Patience and Fortitude the marble lions that sat sentry outside the Public Library. Only they weren’t welcoming him in, they were ushering his exit.

Before Peter could respond to the impassioned plea to converse with their beloved team member the Special Agent in Charge did. “I will speak with Mr. Caffrey.” The gentleman in charge reached for the door with one hand and smoothed his tie with the other. He had so longed for that extra cup of coffee. ‘Oh well’ he shook his head.

“Mr. Caffrey,” the Special Agent in Charge addressed the man shackled across from him. He was mindful to keep any semblance of authoritarianism from his delivery. The older man’s aim was to keep the man across from him at ease. Neal Caffrey was well known for his conman ways. Still all in all he was just a scarred young man trapped to a table, with blood droplets pooling on the metal surface below his wrists. 

“Yes Agent Bancroft.” Neal replied the picture of calmness in a raging winter storm. Well mostly calmness, there was an element of contrite winds blustering at the edges of the surface. A few snowflakes of penitent regret wafting through the air surrounding him.

“Do you know why you are here?” The older man searched the younger man’s bright blue eyes for the epi center of the enigma wrapped up in $10,000 worth of armament across from him.

“I believe it is because Agent Burke wishes to terminate the terms of my work release.” Neal answered with such unfettered honesty that the senior agent knew somehow it was a relief to the young man that he might not have return to the work in the conditions he had been laboring in since Agent Burkes return.

Kyle paused in his physical assessment of the District of Columbia native. The young man with the often-discussed good looks and easy charm also had a glorious mind. One that did not need to be trapped behind bars wasting away in decay. He treed the razors edge with cautioned eagerness. The six five year old also District of Columbia native knew he had to handle the following discourse with restraint, he could not allow his keened enthusiasm to display prematurely. 

“Is that what you wish Mr. Caffrey?” The older man opened his hands to the CI. “Do you with to return to Sing Sing?” Neal paused before rattling of the next line in the play. He gave considerable thought to the question, he needed to offer an honest answer, and one the gentleman across from him would accept without dubiety. 

“Whether I am here with Agent Burke or in a cell at Ossining, I am in prison.” The former Bennett’s voice was even, no sarcasm, no comeuppance, no disrespect, it just simply was. The man in brown searched the younger man across from him. The felon was chary at the assessment but otherwise gave no indication as to which destination he would actually prefer. The cold metal bars of the prison upstate or the one here that offered glass windows with a view of the outside world.

The Special Agent in Charge decided upon the lending of voice to the next steps in the day. “I would like for you to take a look at something for me Mr. Caffrey. Would you be amenable to that? Or would you prefer I call a transport vehicle?” Kyle Bancroft liked to think he was a reasonable man. He didn’t want to see such brilliant mind wasted in the swamps of the not quite of the maximum-security prison. Nor did he want to stop the man if he needed for his own reasons to return where he felt safe. Peter’s look of disgust shot through his mind.

“Yes sir. I would be amenable to looking at whatever it is you would like me to look at.” The felon addressed the senior lawman with the deference due his elevated FBI station. The blue gaze that held his brown was resolute and swerving the only thing that gave pause to otherwise solid performance, the barest hint of clonus in his strained neck. The older man took in the tick and realized this man didn’t want to return to prison, he just didn’t want to continue to aggrieve the ASAC.

“I suppose you might be amenable to some coffee as well?” Agent Bancroft offered with a smile and what he hoped was a tension-dispelling chuckle. The older man in his favorite brown suit was not disappointed when his efforts in engaging the felon paid off.

Neal worked to main his facade allowing it to dissolve at the edges into a small smile, “I would not be opposed to coffee sir.” The senior FBI agent nodded in agreement to the java terms and took leave of the interrogation room. 

Three agents waited outside the door. The faces on the junior agents were battle ready whether for a dogfight or a friendlier contest of words was immaterial. These were two people who would do whatever they had to do to keep the young man in the room behind him from returning to prison. The director was impressed with their mettle and their allegiance to their teammate. The other agent in waiting however seemed content to let the man pickle in his own jar. 

With some quick thinking the man in charge found an expectable way to disperse the lions from protecting their charge and leaving senior Agent in Charge alone with the flushed ASAC ready to beat some sense into his CI. “Agents Berrigan and Jones,” Bancroft kept his voice the timbre of a trickling brook, “might I ask of you a quick favor?” They eyed him warily barely concealed distrust evident in their fiery glows. A quick favor might mean anything, but first and foremost it meant leaving Mr. Caffrey unattended. The director was cognizant of the fact abandonment was something neither agent was want to do. 

“Would you please secure myself and Mr. Caffrey some coffee?” Their eyes swirled at such banal and mundane request. Still he could see as they reasoned coffee meant prison was not on the imminent horizon. He continued paving the way for a non-prison destination day. “I wish to have Mr. Caffrey look something over for me.” He could see they were pondering if it was the termination of his work release. 

Knowing he needed them to vacate the area even for a few short minutes he kept at his road so that they might travel theirs. He offered something he knew they would accept, “As you have both worked with him closely, I would like you both present in the room. You will be more likely to know his tells.” 

They junior agents relaxed their combat ready postures for more solid at attention carriages. Each inhaling heart rate calming breathes before nodding in the affirmative to director. “Black sir?” Were the only two words Clinton Jones offered at the request for the beverage.

“With a dash of cream please.” Bancroft responded with a hint of I am an old man and can no longer take it straight up in his voice. The senior man assumed they knew how the young CI took his. How someone took his or her coffee was tradable currency at the federal building at 26 Federal Plaza.

“Yes sir,” The junior agents chorused as they spun around on their respective heals and headed for the elevator that would take them to their nectar filled destination.

The director eyed the ASAC fatigue evident in his sagging facial features before asking, “do you mean to be done with him then? Is this a punishment in your retraining seminar? Is this a teaching moment? Or has he committed a crime I should be made aware? Should I call for the bus to return his to Sing Sing?”

Peter consciously made the muscle in under his right eye tick. Really though it wasn’t that hard an action to offer, the very thought of Neal returned to a place that could provide in the way of the abuses he encounted turned his stomach and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in abject misery.

“I reminded him he could spend the rest of his time in prison.” The agent shrugged as if he was talking about a stop at a gas station not returning a man who had come to mean the world to him back to a four-walled Hell. “He offered me his hands.” Peter moved his hands together as if clasped in prayer. “It seemed to me, it was his choice.” The upstate native effectively side steeped all questions asked without giving a direct answer.

“I like you Peter. You are a good man and a good agent.” The older man paused for a settling breath, “I know this business with the senator was stressful. That you were put through a crucible when you were remanded to the FDC in Brooklyn.” The SAC sought out the ASAC’s eyes with diplomatic grace and courtesy. 

“I understand if for whatever the reason you need to settle your mind that you don’t wish to keep Mr. Caffrey as part of your team.” Bancroft pulled at his sleeve to make sure it was straight (it was the little details that were important) before continuing, “Please let me know now so that I may make arrangements so that you don’t have too.”

The owner of the piece of art entitled, ‘Coffee at Burke’ allowed his very real anguish at the “business with the senator” and “remanded to the FDC in Brooklyn” to show on his face as he responded solemnly to the superior agent, “a teaching moment sir.”

Clinton and Diana returned with the requested coffees, hovering just at the edge of polite distance while the senior agents finished their terse discussion more like a worded swordplay. Bancroft nodded to Peter he hoped the man would take the suggestion, “maybe it would be a good time to catch a cup of coffee with Reece. Maybe even two.” 

With a quick hand Peter removed his unmarred IPhone from Brooks Brothers pants pocket, offering a docile “yes sir” before punching the name Reece Hughes in his phone. As the man in the blue work suit waited for his former boss and current play participant to answer the phone he kept a vigilant eye on the scene in front of him.

“Come along Agent Jones, Agent Berrigan” The Special Agent in Charge bid the coffee bringers. As he was opening the door Peter quick locked eyes with Neal. Once he was sure the CI understood the message he hoped to relay he turned to exit the floor and then the federal building.

As he ticked the button to call the elevator Peter heard the SAC inquire of Clinton and Diana, “might either of you have a handcuff key on you? I seem to have left mine at my desk.” Diana was just that much quicker on the draw.

December 3, 2013, Home of Former ASAC Reece Hughes, 8:35AM

Peter stared at the door for a second; his body was humming with the emotions of the morning. He adjusted his tie and straightened the lapels of his winter coat before raising a steady hand to herald his arrival to the man inside the brownstone in Carnegie Hill, Peter smiled he still knew old timers who called the area the Silk Stocking District. The large oak surface swung back to reveal his former boss and good friend. “Peter come on in, the coffee is hot.”

Peter pursviated the older man into the newly retiled kitchen. Reece nodded to the blue cup next to the Cuisinart machine that had been a Christmas gift the year past from he and El. El had told him Reece would love the timer function. Who didn’t love their coffee brewing as the stepped into the kitchen?

The former baseball player swung his hand down to met the handle and watched the steam of the Italian brew swirl off the top of the mug like tiny billows of smoke in a Javaed fire. The play participant took a calming sip before placing the mug down on the marbled table top with unintentional exaggerated care. His fingers mountained themselves on the surface before splaying.

Peter’s eyes darted across the swirled pattern in the newly installed countertop before his brown eyes swung up towards the craggy face of his mentor. His voice was solid and uncompromising as he offered the awaited news of the opening day of White Collar: To Catch a Criminal Boss. “He took the bait Reece.” The other gentleman smiled. Peter couldn’t help in joining in the smile movement. 

“He took the bait and Caffrey deserves a Tony and a ton of little chickens he loves so much.” The former ASAC smiled at the Tony Award. Young Caffrey (he often wondered just how young) worked the stage like no other actor before him. Reece had no idea what the little chickens were but if Peter felt them a good gift, the Carnegie Hill resident would be first in line at the market to buy him one.

“Caffrey can keep him busy for the day?” Reece questioned already know the answer. Neal could pontificate ad nauseam about any and all number of topics. That he new he had to keep the current Special Agent in Charge occupied would only spur him on the extrapolate on all manner of things Bancroft brought to him and a fair number of things he probably didn’t.

“Of course Reece, its Neal.” The pride with which the upstate native relayed that conformation was not lost on the older man. Peter was finding his way back. Though he had no doubt there would still be bumps in the road and a hurt feeling or ten. Slowly but surely some of the Peter Burke he knew was returning. Including unrestrained pride in the accomplishments of the young white collar felon. “He can keep him busy until the New Year.” Peter’s smile the first true one the older man had seen in months and a day.

“Let’s get to work then,” the man in jeans and a cable knit sweater said to the man in a blue suit. They each had their parts in the performance. They needed to see to theirs while Caffrey saw to his. The lawman and the former lawman still with many connections and favors owed pulled out their phones to make calls to the supporting cast members in the play.

December 3, 2013 FBI Evidence Storage (Cold Case Counter) 5:33PM

Ms. Carney raised a wary glance at the sound of the wall giving a shimmy to the right and a shake to the left. Who on earth would be headed her way? Most everyone in the building had already taken leave. With the passing of the day famous for Turkey and stuffing now people were all about Christmas and Chanukah. 

The only reason she was still in attendance was that the printer jammed, AGAIN. And she had to take it apart AGAIN and find the infernal little piece mucking up her progress in completing her paperwork related tasks. Not for the first time did she wonder how a bureaucracy built on the milling of paperwork thought to churn out the paperwork if they didn’t offer to maintain the devices used to mill out that paper work.

From her residence below the entryway counter she heard the doors of elevator open and feet walk out. She waited a beat. That uneven walk could only belong to one person. One person with an ankle monitor tight about his left ankle. Lacking any of the grace in her name the lady in the Doc Martin’s moved herself up off the cold dusty ground.

Neal jumped just a hair when Ms. Carney popped up in front of him like a bun topped mole in the whack a mole game. He had not been expecting her to materialize so suddenly from before him. “Mr. Caffrey…” she trailed off searching for words in her lexicon appropriate to the situation, (were there any?) “I didn’t quite know if I would be seeing you…” The again was implied though mercifully not voiced.

The exhausted stage actor studied the freckled face across from him. She wanted to provide him a calm in his storm. Still the tight lines under her eyes belayed the worry she faced at to whether she would have chance to see him again. “Neither did I Ms. Carney.” His voice had been solid in its delivery; her lip jutted out slightly at his agreement, hadn’t it? Turbulent blue eyes sought solid brown in a way an anchor sought the ground beneath the sea. 

“What were you doing on the floor?” He inquired good naturedly trying to swell the emotional tide crashing in waves against the rocks of their personal beaches. This had been a trying day. The kind that reached into your bowels and disassembled them. The felon wasn’t sure why he made the ride down here. He told himself it was to assure the lady in black that the scene she unintentionally joined in the elevator this morning had not resulted in him returning to prison. 

“I was arguing with Mr. Wilson.” The man in the three-piece suit wrinkled his nose. He had not sensed the presence of another. He didn’t think she would be so loose with her words had their been another person present. Neal reached over the counter expecting to see a man. Instead he saw was the disassembled parts of a body. Well the severed limbs of what he assumed was a printer.

“I see he lost the argument,” the work release felon offered in way of observation of the scrimmage of the lady v the government equipment. Did printers really have that many parts and pieces? The amount of toner dusted on the floor was impressive; it looked like a blackened avalanche of ash exploded from a plastic and metal federal volcano.

“That he did.” She laughed, her eyes swirling with mirth instead of worry. Well she reasoned with herself. The worry was greater now. Why? Why was the work-released felon here? This was unexpected? Or was it, she tossed the question into the depths of her churning cauldron of a gut. After the ritual, they had connected on a deeper level. The man before her allowed for the essence of what might be considered with magnification trust in her. 

She rolled her lip in. “Is tú mo chara.” (You are my friend.) His simple statement hammered through her head. “Níl, bhí tú in ifreann.” (No, You were in Hell.) Hammered through her heart. She was in Hell. There was no amount of dirt and water that would wash away the shame coursing through her soul. 

“Le do thoil, níl mé ag iarraidh é seo a dhéanamh liom féin.” (Please, I don’t want to do it by myself.) He wasn’t doing it alone. She had meant it when she told him, “Níl tú i do aonar.” (You are not alone.) Not for the first time did the lady in black wish she had told him of her subterfuge that night. There were moments in your life after which nothing was the same. She sensed another such moment was near to passing.

Neal walked around to the work side of the counter and slipped down till he sat crossed legged on the floor, a jocund “tá sé seo i bpíosaí,” (this is in pieces) leaving his lips with a chuckle. The lady with the schoolmarm bun tried to summon a matching laugh instead with a sigh born of exsanguination she went to join the recent addition to the battle of Mr. Wilson when the wall announced that the elevator had been called to a supernal destination.

Grace halted in her decent and with a wary gaze watched the wall in hopes to not hear the Hollywood would love them sound effects that would announce yet another visitor to the basement. She waited and waited and just when she thought again to try and join the gentleman in the Tom Ford Cashmere Chesterfield coat for what she was certain would be there last friendly exchange she heard the decent of the box. 

The records clerk glanced at the clock then down at her floor mate. He was busy putting the puzzle pieces together. Was he not concerned? She went to say something to the man below her, without looking up from his surgery the surgeon interrupted her yet to be voiced thoughts, “I hear it Ms. Carney.”

The lady in the utilitarian black pants, the simple black blouse and the oversized gray sweater rested her arms on the counter and her chin in her hands to wait for her second unexpected visitor of the evening. The lines of her scars were clearly visible and in some ways she relished the memories punching at her mind. Peter had held her wrists the entire ride to the hospital, no matter that her consciousness flickered in and out like the light down in the sewer. “You are not alone.” His voice had been so reassuring she hadn’t fought to keep her leaden lids open. 

The wall shimmied to the left and shook to the right. The groaning started. Brown eyes blinked at the full movie production of the elevator bring yet another person to the subterranean address. Really she mused, since when had she become the hot after 5 spot of the Jacob K. Javits building?

Seconds later the cire doors opened and the occupant stepped into the waiting area. Well salted caramel balls she thought. Just what the day needed was bookended handcuff filled standoffs. Did Peter, the kind Peter who was once soaked in her sanguine mean to cuff his CI again? Why? Her eyes bored into the man across from her. Hoping for elludication.

From his position on the floor Neal could see how her legs tensed up, her booted right toe pressed into the wooden frame of the counter with considerable pressure. “What can I do for you sir?” He could hear the barely tempered disgust in her voice. Before whomever sir was could answer what she could do for him. The lady in the coke-bottled glasses continued her voice a sudden gush of vitriol and unrestrained fury “come to place me in handcuffs as well?”

Peter swallowed at the unfettered calmness with which that question was proffered. The lady across the wooden barrier was neither insolent nor aggressive. On the contrary she was eerily, eerily calm. The kind of calm the air took on before a tsunami rent the shore. The agent knowing her history with restraints, their combined histories with metal cuffs tread very carefully. “Good Evening Grace.” His hands were open in the universal I mean no harm gesture. “I wondered if by any chance Neal might be in residence?”

She didn’t previcate to the agent, she just interpellated that which she most needed an answer too. In a manner that left nothing to the imagination as to whose side in the battle of metal she was on. “Why Agent Burke? Have you come to place handcuffs on him, again?” The again hung in the air like a bomb set to detonate. Neal hung his head in he wasn’t even sure what. She was taking up a sword in defense of him. 

Peter watched the lady across from him for sometime before responding. While everyone in this play had his or her own sides, the full script had not been dispersed. Acting required illusion and misdirect. There was no misdirecting in her defense of the missing man. There was no illusion as to whose side she was on. Was there?

What happened in the next few hours would set the stage for the second act of their play. Peter had known that unexpected roadblocks might pop up in their campaign; he had no idea or maybe if he really paused to think about it he did that Ms. Carney might be one of them. 

Fractals. Neal and Grace were like fractals. Infinitely complex patterns, self-similar across different scales and planes. They were created by repeating a simple process in an ongoing feedback loop. Driven by recursion, fractals were images of dynamic systems and the very images of Chaos. Of course two infinitely complex people with dynamic systems who were the physical embodiment of chaos would find fit together. 

He worked the rock that had taken up residence in his throat at the thought of ever encircling Neal in cuffs again down into the ether until he could safely respond. “No Grace. I mean him no harm.” Her face stilled to the point of blank. “If you have chance to see him might you give him this?” The agent placed a blank card down in front of the clerk. Peter knew the gamble he was taking in offering her the little square. 

“Why would I do that?” She asked again the air heavy with torrent clouds of memories long past. The agent ran a hand over his face it had been a long day. And it would be a longer night still. “I don’t suppose because I asked nicely is an acceptable answer?” It was then Peter spied the sign be had been low key praying for; she dusted a light finger over her neck. She was maintaining the illusion, furthering the act. If they didn’t when the collective Tony for best play…

She made no move to acknowledge the card. The man beneath the counter listened to the tennis match of words above his head. He had planned on his own whack a mole pop up the second he heard Peter’s voice. He was just momentarily stunned by Ms. Carney’s undeterred defense of his person. “Why don’t you simply call him?” The lady ensconced in the oversized sweater asked.

“I did, he hasn’t answered.” Peter explained. It was true Neal slipped out his phone. He had three missed calls from the agent in the vestibule. How he wondered had that happened? He hadn’t heard or felt the buzz. What if the New York native had been in need of assistance?

“Is he not required to answer?” She pushed the man in Brooks Brothers to the end of his rope. Though what she was pushing for and why she wasn’t quite sure. Neal scooted along the dirty floor only mildly concerned about how it might mar his wonderful coat. He needed to quell the rising storm.

The shear opprobrium that tinged the exhalation of Peter’s breath was enough to let Neal know how close to swerving off the edge of the precipice Peter was treading. Even though he knew the lawman could not see him from his place below the counter Neal raised his eyes and hand up in solidarity. 

Ever so gently the coal head tugged on the ladies pant leg. Absently he noted her boots went to her knees. The floor sitter wanted the champion to make Peter aware of his presence. She shuffled her booted foot to let him know the message was received.

“I am sorry sir. I did not mean to be so rude.” Her eyes swirled with the worry fustigating in her soul. “It is very stressful to see someone in handcuffs.” Her voice was ameliorating a bit as she said handcuffs. Peter hung his head. The images of her cuffed flashed through his head. There had been so much blood. None of them knew what they would find when they reached for a pulse. 

Before he could respond to her unneeded apology her voice again filled the air. “Agent Burke.” His head picked up at the use of Agent Burke, not sir, not ASAC, but Agent. Her hands were gesticulating to him on the down low he realized. He blinked overly long to let her know he understood Neal was there. 

“I am sorry that you had to be involved in that ride Grace.” Aphonicaly including their ride to the hospital. Peter tried to welter out an apology. Even though he knew at this moment that is not what he needed to proffer an apology on. That white card was its own kind of signal. A signal that one way or another would inspire a reaction. He hated to leave her to face the burden of Neal’s riposte or retaliation (depending on how he processed the exposed evidence) alone. The longer he stayed the more unsafe the situation (for all parties involved) became.

The lady in black felt the augmentation of the air. The currents swirling about the occupants of the subterranean location were suddenly bathypelagic and foreboding. It was as if vipers were set to strike at any moment their venom oozing into veins of those within striking distance.

The Irish woman was cognizant of the need to escape. It wasn’t safe. Whatever was going on. They needed out of the FBI Building at 26 Federal Plaza with all possible haste. The lady in waiting set those steps in expedited motion the only way she knew how. “Thank you sir, apology accepted.” 

Brown eyes sought brown eyes she acknowledged the need for a rushed and hurried leave. “I am sure you understand that it has been a long day sir.” He nodded the day had been much to long indeed and with a slight fisted hand he sighed it wasn’t over yet.

Her small fingers pushed the clearly blank card towards him. “Is there a message you wish to add?” She stopped for a quick breath, “or is the card as you would like it to be delivered?” With one final chance to change his decision Peter let his finger hover in flight above the card before ultimately moving it back towards her. The brown eyes that looked at him relayed that she knew there was something he wasn’t telling her and it would be ok. Whatever it was.

His throat was tight, he tried to smile but he found the testicular fortitude for that particular action missing, “Yes its as it should be.” For the added elucidation for the man on floor the agent added, “I think I shall go home to some little chickens.” Her eyebrows rose she could feel rather than see her floor mate sag at the words. Though strange sounding to her, those words were quite obviously a signal to the man at her feet.

Neal looked at the legs in front of him he could feel his body rattling in rage. “Uaireanta tagaimid isteach i saol daoine nuair a bhíonn siad ag teastáil uainn.” (Sometimes we come into people’s lives when we are needed.) In her own way she had tried to tell him that she was not his friend. Why had he not listened to her words? Instead he focused on her actions. 

Blue eyes scourged the profile of the lady in black. He had not expected the change in status. The coal head swallowed the bile that had suddenly found residence in his throat. It was not he who deserved the Tony Award for Best Actor, but she. 

“Very good sir, enjoy your diminutive poultry.” Her voice way to kind for the electric air that hovered about the man in the Brooks Brothers suit. With gut churning consternation at the fall out from the grenade he just launched Peter backed towards the elevator, his balls suddenly felt as if they were trapped in a vice grip. With a heavy hand he pressed the call button. The doors slide open mercifully fast. He practically dove into the safety of the small room before adding, “Thank you Grace.”

Never before had Grace had the chance to see the physical embodiment of the phrase, ‘racked with guilt.’ No, it wasn’t until Peter stepped into the conveyance his hands deep in his winter coat his jaw so locked he might need professional help with TMJ did she know what it meant to look on someone ‘racked with guilt.’

With one quick squeeze to her fingers, the lady at the counter handed the card down without looking at it. Neal shifted his body back to where he had been previously behind the printer parts. He sat frozen on the tundra of the basement floor his limbs glued to the hard surface as if it were the only thing keeping him erect. 

Brown eyes took great care not to look at the man before her. For whatever few seconds she could she allowed him the dignity of processing the message flashing on neon ticker in his head. The clerk moved the remaining few pieces of the broken solider to her desk. 

“We need to leave Mr. Caffrey.” Her voice urging the movement of the man who stared in obmuscence at the blank white paper in his hands. Neal couldn’t seem to break his concentration. It was as if he was locked in a trance. The lady modulated her volume upward repeating, “We need to leave Mr. Caffrey.” 

Not even a flicker of a hair. “Niall, NÍ MÓR dúinn imeacht. ANOIS.” (Neal, We MUST leave NOW.) The Chesterfield coat wearer didn’t know if it was the use of Niall or NOW or Gaelic that got him moving or a potpourri blend of all three. 

Blue eyes looked up at the lady across from him. What was it his file said? Neal runs. He was gripped by the sudden need to run as fast and as far as his feet would take him. He needed to be away, away from the building, away from the FBI, away from Peter, away from the play and away from her. 

This is the feeling people get when they realized they have been conned. The accomplished confidence man never knew how much in tunneled into your gut like termites eating at a house decayed. His eyes stared at her wrist. Was it lie? No one could fake those types of scars. Could they? He thought about the thin line at the base of her neck... How could he have been so stupid? So dumb. So conned.

The gentleman rouse up in one fluid movement showing his years of fight training. He took a step towards the lady opposite of him just past the line of accepted physical space. However, menacing it seemed she to her credit stood her ground.

“Tá a fhios agam go bhfuil fearg ort. Cibé rud a theastaíonn uait a rá leis an Uasal Caffrey, éistfidh mé go hiomlán.” (I know you are angry. Whatever it is you have need of saying Mr. Caffrey, I will listen in full.) Her eyes told him she knew he knew of her deception. “Ach, NÍ MÓR dúinn imeacht. ANOIS.” (However, We MUST leave NOW.) Her indurate voice urged in expatiated desperation. 

Doc Martins backed up to her desk, while keeping the weeble wobble of wroth in her sights. With a graceful swing of her arm the lady latched onto her bag and coat. Her booted feet made to walk a path around the human obstruction in her path. The living breathing blockade had alternate ideas, the Irishman stretched up to his full height; he brought his arms out to the sides in twin towers on cement blocking her escape.

It wasn’t until he saw her neck twitch in cold hard fear and the very tangible white of the cicatrix across the base that Neal realized the sadistic severity of what he was doing. No matter how angry or betrayed he might be, he could not and would not torture someone. The dancer backed his body up moving his hands in an open gesture. “Tá brón orm,” (I am sorry) he offered earnestly at her flushed appearance. 

Without responding to the man in the wool hat, more so because she could not think of a response that would assuage any of the emotions coruscating through the are like a tornado ready to lend destruction to all that lay in its path, Grace eased past the opening of the space around him trying and failing miserably the man noted to quell her body’s mutinous shaking. With mostly steady digits the lady in black recalled the elevator to their under the building location. Blessedly the cire doors opened to the trapped space before the subterraneans. 

The lady in black stepped back towards the counter. Neal wondered at the rapid change in direction until he remembered the metal cage doors had not been moved down and locked into place. He stepped into the elevator not wanting to see or hear the closing. He could not contain the shutter that racked his lithe frame when he heard the click. 

The silence in the air of traveling room was charged; one move and either occupant would spark a fire. The Irish duo was very conscious of that fact neither wanted to play with matches in a room so doused in gasoline. They stood across from each other locked in mute combat.

The second the bell tintibulated its arrival their bodies swerved to shoulder to shoulder more careful than ever to maintain a buffer of space between them. Two sets of feet made the lobby floor before the elevator doors could fully open. 

The former tenants of the basement wasted no time in finding the open space outside the federal building. Once they broke into the night the lady gulped down air as if trying to stave off a panic attack. Neal hung his head in shame, whatever else he might have want to do infusing sudden fear and anxiety into Ms. Carney was not a task on his to do list. 

To her credit she turned to him and with a voice more steady that tremulous issued, “we need to go Mr. Caffrey. With all manner of haste.” She paused for a second knowing the following words would aggrieve him, “I believe there is diminutive poultry in our future.” Those words washed over the felon like cold water over the bow of a dingy in a squall. 

“Tabby.” He realized much too late was the female of “Toby.” He eyed her with equal parts respect at the con and disgust that she would use such personal pieces of their traditions as tools in trade. He really had lost his abilities as a conman; he couldn’t tell that her frumpy get up was just a costume to hide the truth. From the expression emanating from her crestfallen face Neal gathered his reaction might have been heavier on the disgust than the respect.

The former Bennett agreed they needed to make quick tracks into the night. Not trusting himself to say anything the five foot eleven man turned on his Berluti heal and headed towards the subway that would bring them towards their destination one with little chickens. And a bevy of much required answers. The conman didn’t wait to see if the actress followed him. 

A/N: Just in Case…

Irish to English Translations Are As Follows:

Uisce = Water

Salachar = Dirt

Tá sé seo i bpíosaí = This is in pieces

Is tú mo chara = You are my friend

Níl, bhí tú in ifreann = No, You were in Hell

Le do thoil, níl mé ag iarraidh é seo a dhéanamh liom féin = Please, I don’t want to do it by myself

Níl tú i do aonar =You are not alone

Uaireanta tagaimid isteach i saol daoine nuair a bhíonn siad ag teastáil uainn. = Sometimes we come into people’s lives when we are needed

Niall, NÍ MÓR dúinn imeacht. ANOIS = Neal, We MUST leave NOW

Tá a fhios agam go bhfuil fearg ort. Cibé rud a theastaíonn uait a rá leis an Uasal Caffrey, éistfidh mé go hiomlán = I know you are angry. Whatever it is you have need of saying Mr. Caffrey, I will listen in full. 

Ach,NÍ MÓR dúinn imeacht. ANOIS = However, We MUST leave NOW

Tá brón orm = I am sorry

Níl tú i do aonar = You are not alone


	11. “Behind the sternness of his voice there was a shackled anger, and beneath that shackled anger there was a buried pain.”

“Behind the sternness of his voice there was a shackled anger, and beneath that shackled anger there was a buried pain.”  
~ Dean F. Wilson, Hopebreaker

TRIGGER WARNING/READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED: This chapter may not be suitable for all audiences. This chapter contains VIOLENT and MATURE themes.

December 3, 2013 On Route to the Burke Residence 6:03PM

Her thrift store boot covered feet epigoned him from a palladium distance. Neal heard the soft crunch of the snow skittered about the New York City street under the knee high Doc Martins. He noted the lady aback him took great care in staying just outside his peripheral sightline. Still the man in the Tom Ford Cashmere Chesterfield coat couldn’t get her body’s mutinous shaking out of his mind. 

When he alighted from the frozen tundra of the tiled floor, his peregrination was that of a cobra released from his basket at market uncoiled and rising to strike. He thought back to his uncle punching him in the barn the seconds that ticked as he flew through the air time hovering frozen in suspended animation. How for just those few moments the terror of the coming beating shorted his brain. 

Neal balled his pugilist fist in his marred winter coat the one engulfed in the tin smell of a battle lost with Mr. Wilson. His skin pulled at the shirt around the cuff of his wrist, he could feel the garment almost stitched into the groves from were Peter’s handcuffs had lain. With a little punch down into the pocket he felt rather than heard the rip as the zipper of skin separated, trickles of blood cried lonely tears down his knuckles.

The man in the red tie had vowed to himself that night in the barn to never ever cause to bring about that same fear in someone. There were so many other ways to bring about the results you desire in any given situation than to resort to wroth. With Ms. Carney that is what he did and what more, he did it with jouissance purposeful intention. He used his body to control her’s through the promise of brutality. 

Ms. Carney’s verbal riposte after her body’s reddened rebellion was to accept his malicious opprobrium as her punishment for her underlying moral culpability in the part she played in the White Collar production of To Catch a Criminal Boss. With a grace that lived up to her name she humbled herself before him, “Tá a fhios agam go bhfuil fearg ort. Cibé rud a theastaíonn uait a rá leis an Uasal Caffrey, éistfidh mé go hiomlán.” (I know you are angry. Whatever it is you have need of saying Mr. Caffrey, I will listen in full.) 

She received his callous control as if it were a down payment due on a much larger purchase. The look in her brown eyes relayed that she was well aware that he had other machinations in mind. Her sponge would absorb all the venom he thought to sink into her. First and foremost she was concerned for his safety, even when he had shown a blatant disregard for hers. Her voice had been rock solid in the fustigating hail storm of his contempt as she beseeched him with all she had “NÍ MÓR dúinn imeacht. ANOIS.” (We MUST leave NOW.) 

He saw her body convulse quite without her consent as he bulked out his girth an unrestrained river of fury seeping out of his pours like toxic waste meant to ravage all in its path over and over on the projector in his head. When he brought his arms hulkingly out to his sides it must have seemed to her a fighters stance, still she stood her ground, she wouldn’t give him an ounce of cower. It was then he became cognizant of how far beyond the veil of his personal ethics he had strayed. 

He wasn’t just adrift on a dark Midwestern highway in an old rattling truck with no clear destination to head to. He was his uncle, a man (if you could call him that) who sought to sway dominance through savage unbridled force with sadistic schadenfreude. That he was capable even for a moment in time of relishing that feeling of puissance. He really had learned well all the lessons Cairbre beat into him.

Neal pulled his balled white knuckled fists out of his pockets. He forced the palms open, for a split second all he could see was the carnage of that day, the blood dripping like a leaky faucet off them into the earth below his broken body. His hands so known for bringing about the beauty of art started to shake like leaves falling of a tree in autumn. He shoved the offending limbs back in their cashmere sheaths were they continued to rumble with intransigent flinches. He heard the steady crunch of her leaden walk behind him as they made their pilgrimage to the subway station. 

Once he realized what he had done in that spilt second moment in time where the sand in the hourglass hovered frozen in the air, he snapped himself out of his rage induced haze of having the man he most trusted in the world shatter that foundation by using a woman a clear victim of a violent crime as a pawn. He sought to offer her all he could in that moment to change the tide, simple words of contrition. “Tá brón orm.” (I am sorry.) If he were she, he would not have accepted his apology either. 

Neal was nearing the entrance to the subway stairs, he loosened the bolts on his limbs a scant amount, confirming that his traveling companion was in his wake. The sight of her black boots against the white of the snow that littered the ground like pearlized Marti Gras beads established that she was. Why he wondered in that moment did those boots go all the way to her knees? It suddenly though inexplicably seemed important. The shitkicker boots and there length.

He acknowledged the brisance in the unsteady frame that made up his psyche. What was his detonation pressure? When would he simply explode? The image of Peter in his office telling him to ‘get out of my sight, you make me sick’ jerked across the floor of his mind as if a depined grenade. He heard Peter as if he were right next to his hat covered ear spit out the words from the conference room, “there is no magic time amount that will right all that is wrong with you.” 

The man in the ichor soaked Bassistoni just couldn’t unhear “right all that is wrong with you.” Did a part, even a small part of his partner really believe that there were things wrong with him? ‘Get out of my sight, you make me sick.’ ‘All that is wrong with you.’ Neal knew in his rational mind they were acting and the agent’s words was an improvised script. To the torn and destuffed rag doll soul inside him those words sounded just like his uncle’s. “Ní mór duit cuimhneamh go bhfuil tú bruscar.” (You need to remember you are trash.) 

“I’m so sorry Neal.” The unfettered remorse in those four words both balmed the festering lacerations in his heart and twisted his nuts as if they were trying to store for winter hibernation. Peter was sorry, so very very sorry, not just for cuffing him a physical action they had already discussed for the operation. 

Though the felon knew forcing the agent to put him in irons in such an impersonal manner must have been a prizefighter gut punch. The older man was more so apologetic for obliterating the foundation of trust they had built, for damaging the once uncompromising faith they had, for losing faith in himself and in turn questioning the depth of the faith Neal had in him. 

Peter was like a dish that had been thrown against a wall broken pieces scattered about and Neal was the glue. The coal head had given the older man the one thing in that moment he could to relay that all hope was not lost that he would paste him back together. He lifted his finger, a tangible representation of the words, I trust you, I have not lost faith in you, and my love for you is unconditional.

His pursuviant was closing the distance between their two points he could feel her turbulent energy bouncing off the metal stairwell, swirling about the small space like snowed haboob above the descending New York skyline. His blue eyes could just see the stage curtain swing of her coat as it bounced of the steps. Stage curtain. Would the world always be a stage?

Thoughts of the hallway outside of interrogation flitted through his mind like flinders of color at the end of a kaleidoscope. His conscious mind hadn’t processed the abject horror of images past that weltered across Peter’s crimson face when the agent took in how the lady in black’s brown eyes locked on his marinated in red sauce shackled wrists. IF he had only seen the profundity of self-recrimination ablaze like a five alarm fire on the fifty year olds face, the day would have ended much differently. 

The former Bennett watched the woman with her unhatted head and ungloved hands ease her way into the background of the subway car he sat in the front of. Her eyes washed over him as if to reconfirm his presence otherwise they continued the practice of buffered distance allowing the felon to ride in companionship with the demons in his head. 

Every good con knows if you can’t hide the reactions of an emotion you redirect the perceived outcome. The agent wasn’t just upset at having to place his CI (and friend) in irons. He was aggrieved for the lady in black having to watch someone’s wrists becoming a tic tac toe board of x’s and o’s. Peter must have seen her limbs in a similar state of blood saturation and confinement. That was the only logical conclusion the native of DC could make with the small amounts of evidence at his disposal. 

The man with the rivers of dried blood around his wrists worked to find a point were his unconditional love for Peter was resynced with the trust and faith he had provided him all through the play. His heart worked to find bridge with his mind. That Peter didn’t tell him about Ms. Carney’s history didn’t surprise him. It was not Peter’s to tell. It was her’s. That Peter employed her in a supporting role in their play without making him aware of the casting was where he was having trouble. How long had she been a player on the stage? 

The overhead speaker warbled out something. Neal’s ears scrunched at the static whistling after the microphone had been left in open to long. From his seat in the corner he could see Ms. Carney’s unfocused eyes watching the inside of the tunnel go by like comet streaks in the night. Where was her mind at? Her face was a battleground of conflicting emotions, her shoulders hunched in an effort to protect herself from impending harm. 

Neal swallowed down the rocks that littered the path in his throat he knew she thought him to be the forthcoming arbiter of pain. Her right fingers unconsciously rubbed at her left wrist as if she could just do it long enough the lines bracleting the space would just fade into the ether. She kept rolling her one ankle as if it was a slumber and she was trying to rouse it without jarring it awake. 

The next stop was the one that would take them to Peter’s and all the answers held in the House of Burke. The man in the three piece Brioni waited a beat to see is the lady and her trusty Doc Marten’s moved, thus proving she was already in possession of this information. The only things in motion were the Hokey Pokey of her right fingers and her left ankle. The car rolled into the stop the sound of the brakes screaming cries of agony echoed off the walls around them. 

The man in the red tie made a show of departing his seat. He made sure to ruffle the folds of his gentlemen’s coat like the tails of a kite high in the sky, absently noting the plows of volcanic printer ash that joined the feted subway air. Her view master focused on the settling landscape of the subway stop. Her body shot up out of the plastic seat as if doused in kerosene and the seat a match. 

The wayward travelers sought their exits from alternate doors of the metal cart spilling out at the same time on to a platform that reeked of voided urine and something else Neal didn’t even want to contemplate. The lady in black continued at her measured ten paces behind him. Eventually the sable haired man knew he would need to engage the almost automaton like in her movements woman trailing him as if headed the gallows. 

For their safety and the protection of Peter (and by part El who was thankfully out of town at event) they could not enter together through the brownstone’s front doors. Which meant the meandering path behind the dwellings, past the garbage can’s reeking of week old turkey byproducts and decayed carcasses of pie. Some things he thought with a wrinkle of his nose just can’t be helped.

Slowly with great care over his larger body’s placement the dancer spun on his feet. He kept his boxers arms lose at his sides. He was cognizant enough of what little chivalry he had left to not touch her or cross the barrier of vulnerable physical distance. Doe colored eyes met his cerulean. At least he thought they did, she was more looking through him than at him. 

He took in the tighten strings in her violin neck, the slight angled turn of her body. It was a retaining wall built at slope to withstand the direct attack of a storm. While anger was still the most prevailing wind of emotion on his landscape, the man in the Stetson hat found he did not have it in him to continue to fustigate as if a nor’easter at her horizon. 

Once they made it to safety of the Burke backyard Neal worked to ignore the obmutescent woman as if she wasn’t even there. Had he thought about this in depth, he would have come to the conclusion this was an equally cruel measure to take against someone who had only shown him kindness, who had given such a private part of herself bowing in ritual with him, scrubbing as he scrubbed, washing as he washed. 

December 3, 2013 The Burke Residence 6:35PM

Was that all an act and if so to what outcome? Peter all ready had his allegiance. Why involved Grace who had yet to said one word to him since he turned his back on her. Neal knew he had to reign in his ping-ponging thoughts. The man on the other side of the door not been complicit in actions of deception alone. Why the lady (he again noted without hat and gloves) hovering in attempt to become one with the shadows had been part of the con? For how long and in what capacity remained to be seen. 

The Peter he knew even the one that had been drenched in the battery acid of anger over being thrown in prison for actions his father wrought and armored with the shards contempt for his CI over the way he released him from the cell was not capable of bidding her to perpetrate such private actions of their belief systems. 

The man in snow soaked Berluti’s stomach worked to contain the contents suddenly threatening an over throw. If it was the last thing he did he would burn those bowls would be ash. Once the man in the toner covered cashmere coat knew he could knock without wanting to rail vociferously at the man on the other side, he raised his hand. 

The lawman had watched in silent sentry from the alcove of the living room as the man outside reigned in the storm of emotions threatening his topography. Neal thought he had orchestrated Grace’s friendship, that she was simply a pawn on the chessboard; the Neal himself was simply a pawn. That the trust he had given Peter so plainly and without reserve that morning was insignificant to the fifty year old. 

Peter ran his hands over the lines in his face, feeling the grief etched in the canvas. With one deep fortifying breath the homeowner swung open the barrier between them with all possible speed. He fought to control the winds of worry that must be flying across his face as if a category five hurricane. One look between the occupants of his newly decorated backyard (El’s attempt at providing him a safe space) and he knew, the damage was done. 

Would there ever be a finger lift he could provide Neal that would make him believe with all the certainty he did less than twelve hours ago that he trusted him with his life, that he respected him and the decisions he mad and that he loved him so much there wasn’t even a word that would describe the depth of that feeling?

The man in his favorite jeans took an unsteady step back into the warmed house biding the duo entry. His brown eyes swung like Newton’s Cradle between the guests. A sigh filled with clouds of regret and lightening strikes of remorse escaped the lawman’s lips. Two sets of his bored into him as if they were the nail guns and he was the plasterboard. 

“I don’t even know where to begin.” Peter’s words faded into a wall of cashmere, snow and something he wasn’t sure he wanted to know as Neal stepped into the kitchen towards a drawer with the movements of someone long acquainted with the space. His lanky almost steady fingers reached for the nearest red in Elizabeth’s rack, a 2004 cabernet sauvignon from Lokoya. The wine aficionado uncorked the 100% Mount Veeder grown bottle with a pop heard round the house then pour the glass full. 

With fluid cat like movements the felon moved to the table in the living room area and placed the stemware down with a gentle knock. Before Peter could halt his progress and continue on the speech he had prepared, the man still in his marred overcoat swung back into the kitchen kettled some tea for the lady and snagged a beer of the top shelf of the refrigerator. Neal took great care in setting the blue ceramic mug down in front of what he assumed would be the lady’s seat. He jammed the new bottle in Peter’s hand. The fifty year old popped the top off the domestic brew. He and Neal took deep in unison sips of their beverages.

Grace’s full of unshed tears eyes skittered about the living room looking for anything to keep her eggshell from cracking, her yoke spilling on to the hardwood floor below. Eventually her search landed on the folded cotton atop of the couch, before she was even conscious of her feet moving she had made tracks to the handmade quilt. 

The five foot five woman felt a presence behind her. “El likes to pull it out during the winter, so we can snuggle by the TV.” There was a flicker above her head to the left, a lamp she discovered with its bulb working to short itself out. The lady in black was about to propel her eyes back down towards the long ago anniversary gift she made the couple when they landed on the photo next to the Tiffany reproduction. Two carefree smiling faces stared back at her. 

From his perch near the doorframe of the kitchen Neal watched her take in the old patchwork covering atop the couch, then try and discern where the flickering light was coming from. Her eyes locked on the photo that El took of he and Peter in their tuxes before they had gone undercover at the men’s auction and accidently on purpose almost married the agent off to a black widow. The older man was trying to relay this historical information to the woman with the snow dusted bun but she her attention had flown off to parts known only to her.

Her brown eyes accidently caught his blue in her merry go round searching of the space. Her eyes held his for some few moments, Neal swallowed as he watched the world come crashing back like the pelts of a waterfall across her face. With deliberate almost restrained movements she forced her attention to Peter, consciously stepping in front of his broadened expanse, so as to shield herself from the sightline of the man by the doorframe.

From this angle of view the work-released felon could just make out the gesticulations of her hands. He could clearly see something was not right with her mits; they were almost an etiolated blue. Peter’s back hunched over under the weight of her words. 

Eventually he turned towards the stairs, locking sober eyes on the lady in black “are you sure?” The care with which Peter relayed those words slapped Neal in the face. There was so much he didn’t know about these people in front of him, so very much. 

Grace’s only response was one single resolute “yes.”

Slowly as if she were walking across the artic in backwards snow shoes the lady closed the distance between her present location and the chair on the opposite side of the table. She was back to her senses, Neal observed without comment. He took another calming sip of the red wine in his hand. Stub like fingers removed her weather soaked coat, once the water heavy garment was fold across the back of the whitewashed dinning room chair, she landed in the chair like a bag of potato’s dumped in a pantry bucket. 

She made no move to take mug of chamomile despite how chilled her blue tinted hands were. Instead with balled reserves even he didn’t think he had she locked eyes with him. She opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted when the agent made his way back down the stairs. Peter absently acknowledged Neal out of the corner of his eyes, but his main focus was of the lady sitting at his dining table. 

“Grace,” Peter whispered softly engendered the younger woman to look him in the eye. “Are you sure?” 

Her head tilted slightly not quite finding the center of the dartboard, but somewhere close enough. “Yes Peter.” Neal almost chocked on the sip of wine he just swallowed. The way the lady with the Smurf hands thanks to the near freezing temperatures outside and her lack of proper covering said Peter was familiar, intimate even. 

The agent’s eyes rose to his CI’s. “Why don’t you join us at the table Neal?” He took a small bolstering sip from his Blue Point beer bottle. “We have much to discuss.” It was then Neal mimed something to Peter; his actions deliberate in a silent communication code known only to Neal and Peter. The older man simply replied “Mozzie.” That answer seemed to satisfy the wine drinker as he sunk down into the chair across from the woman who had still made no move to nip at her tea.

“Níor nimh mé é.” (I did not poison it.) Neal offered hoping that she would try a little of the warm liquid. While her body was no longer racked with the force of the gale force winds rattling the windows, it radiated the cold of an icebox full in stock. Her brown eyes watched the steam still swirling off the top of the mug, yet she made no move to take it. The tea maker went to repeat it his declaration of not trying to slip a mickey in her fin.

For the first time since leaving the FBI building the records maven and Woolworth Building actress spoke directly to him, “Tá a fhios agam.” (I know.) And she did know, for all his anger, for all his rage, what was foremost in his cyclone of emotions was the ignominy that he allowed her into a private part of his life. So intimate in nature that the lawman aside him wasn’t even aware of.

“Déanann tú?” (You do?) Neal moved the errant curl away from his sight line as he implored her to drink the beverage. The lady who had still not sipped at the seeping tea wondered why, why was it so important to the man still fuming like a factory smoke stack that she drink some stupid tea. Because at his core, Mr. Caffrey was still the kind and caring person who would always put others needs before his own.

“Sea.” (Yes.) The lady with discolored mits knew she had to keep her responses succinct otherwise she might crack like a Humpty Dumpty and this time there would be no one to try and help put her back together. She knew he had no intention of poisoning her. At least not her tea, what he might do to her psyche might be a different story. He wouldn’t seek his balance through something so tackless as poison in tea. 

Peter observed the conversation in front of him like a judge in a tennis match, back and forth they went, volley, serve, volley, and serve. Since he did not speak the funny sounding language being spoken at this dining table he had use his finely honed detective skills to suss out they way they held their bodies, their facial expressions and the tone of their locution. 

Neal while radiating the anger of a thousand suns mixed with gasoline soaked hornets nest did not want the lady to feel threatened. Whatever had happened between the time he practically ran into the elevator like the devil was at his back and when they arrived here at the tense stand off at the NOT OK Burke Corral must have included the man with the dried blood about his wrists treading the line of minaciousness toward the lady with the flushed face.

Grace had done what he and Reece asked of her. She sat right in the chair she was sitting (if you could call the stiff perch at the edge of the chair sitting) now and listened as mostly Reece explained the events that lead to breakthrough in the Man Behind it All. Peter knew the whole time she listened to Reece she was watching him, his eyes couldn’t stay focused they flew around the room looking for something tangible that just might pull him back from the brink.

In the course of that early afternoon tete a tete she all the while paying close attention the former ASAC she reached her fingers over to the man of the house, her palm open, much like he had done when they found her broken and bleeding hanging from the metal hook screwed into the ceiling. She wanted him to know, she saw him, he mattered and above all else he was not alone.

Peter brought his thoughts back to the present. The way her bun sagged on under the weight of the dispelling snow, the way her eyes watched when he wasn’t looking, the cave of her shoulders told him more than anything, she had come to not only respect his CI but to care for him as well. Whatever was aggrieving her and angering him was personal. It wasn’t the production they were part of. They were much to invested in seeing Bancroft go down. No whatever she had done in service of Neal had been private and confidential. Neal was questioning if it was part of some elaborate ploy to engage him further into the production. 

The more he watched their bodies in the Valse Trieste of the Burke chairs the more it dawned on him that they were disjecta membra of souls who had life beat into them with very real fists. They identified with the other whether they were conscious of it or not. What was it that bard said? ‘Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.’ El had picked up the little nightstand copy of a Midsummer Nights Dream at a flea market upstate. While she was away at one of her events he flipped through it, that line in particular stood out to him. 

The homeowner cleared his throat to break their stalemate. “Neal.” Peter started hoping his voice sounded like smooth butter instead of clotted cream. The man in question raised an eyebrow otherwise remaining aphonic. “Thank you for your Tony Award wining performance today.” Neal nodded, waved his hand in the air with exaggerated flourish and bent forward in the mimic of a bow. Once he righted took a smaller sip from the stemware in his hand before setting it down.

“Grace thank you for all that you have done in support of our “performance.” Peter raised his fingers up to air quote. “Reece and I are in your debt.” Her eyes never left the mug she hadn’t move to touch. Reece? Neal questioned in his head. Not Hughes, not former ASAC Hughes or even Agent Hughes. Reece.

She paused for a moment before replying with unswerving purpose, “You are welcome Peter.” Neal steepled his painters fingers as he swung his blue eyes between the people opposite him. 

Speaking to the table at large Peter offered what solace and gratitude he could “I know this is not easy. I know that is had repercussions far beyond what we could have imagined.” The young conman had gone from watching the agent to watching the Smurf across from him. He could feel the clonus in his pants at the need to scream out all that was trapped inside him. Life made him well aware of what happens when you show your outside reactions, so he pushed the palm of his hand down in an effort to quell the rising storm.

“How do we proceed with the performance?” Neal made sure to add the air quotes as the fifty year old had. Peter looked at the man in his gray suit and vest visibly flinching when his eyes washed over the soiled edges hiding the bracelets of blood hovering below. His brown eyes swung to the lady in black and a gray sweater his eyes zeroing in on place beneath the rolls of wool that bore similar markings. “We proceed by easing the tension in the room.” The homeowner took a much-needed sip off his beer, “that is how we proceed.”

“An bhfuil dóiteán ann dó sin?” (Is there a ritual for that?) Neal tossed the question like a dart at the lady who had still not taken a sip of her now cooling tea. Grace looked as if he backhanded her across the face with a closed fist. The man in the marred suit pushed the palm of his hand down again to quell his body’s reaction to the look on her face. He realized as the moment hung about the air like a bomb set to go off that it was he, not her who was demeaning the integrity of the bowls and all they stood for. 

“B’fhéidir gur chóir duit a bheith nite níos deacra?” (Maybe you should wash harder.) Neal felt his face flush as if he was suddenly in the Sahara shrouded in wool. His blue eyes opened wide at the sass and vinegar in the question. Ms. Carney was done with allowing him the grace to process how he needed too. Mettle infused her body as if she had taken a shot of bourbon.

“Tá roinnt salachar taobh amuigh is féidir liom triail a bhaint as anois.” (There is some dirt outside I can try now.) The fencer goaded the woman in the soaked gray sweater on to clash verbal swords with him. Maybe if they were just able to rail at each other they could work through the cyclone funneling around them at mock speed.

She pushed the ceramic mug towards him careful not to spill on the table, which he noted was hard to do with the power in her shove “ar an seans go dteastaíonn rud éigin níos láidre ná uisce uait le bheith glan.” (On the off chance that you need something stronger than water to be clean.) Challenge met, accepted and increased. 

The man of the house calmly sipped at his beer while watching the ping pong match at his table. Whatever was being said needed to be said. Grace snapped out of her quiet contemplative thoughts and was done with Neal’s business. She was meeting whatever he was saying head on and thrust for thrust. The look in the young mans blue eyes when she shoved the mug towards him was a one of awe tinged with the ashes of recrimination.

“Bhí a fhios agam go raibh tú go maith i do phost.” (I knew you were good at your job.) Neal brought his eyes level to hers allowing all the fire burning inside him to burn across his face, “Ní raibh a fhios agam cé chom lo h maith go dtí anocht.” (I didn’t know how good until tonight.) Her eyes widened at the levy of words meant to bruise her with the assault. Her blue tinted hands clasped in a physical barrier not to ball into fists.

“Aisteoir agus fealsamh. Is bean tú le go leor buanna.” (Actor and philosopher. You are a woman with many talents.) Her lips slipped open at the closed fist punch of words being pummeled into her. Peter took in the amelioration of her body’s stance. Whatever it was that Neal was saying to her was passing the very definition of the word enough. “ Is mór an náire nár éirigh liom níos mó díobh a bhlaiseadh.” (It is a great shame that I have not been able to sample more of them.)

There was a deadly calm in the Burke House; the kind right before the hurricane hits and destruction litters the land. With the last sentence Neal had not just crossed the line he trampled it and then stomped it into the ground. Peter thought to intervene until he saw her hands unfurl into flat lines. Her face took on the look of cement after in had aggregated with paste, “Niall. Bí cúramach cad a deir tú ina dhiaidh sin.” (Neal, be careful what you say next.) The man not in the language know understood without knowing the words that the lady had just issued the other man words of castigated warning. 

It was the color that splashed across her décolletage like a cold wave against the shoreline rocks that snapped Neal into the realization of just how savage and sadistic his words sounded. His mind flashed on the scars he viewed on her back when she bowed to pray, he flashed on her wrists a doc cee doo of cicatrix, his eyes made for the line across her neck. He wondered at the knee-high boots and why, why would she armored such a strange location to prepare for battle. One final look at her redden expanse and he lay down his sword. 

She was saying something the man with his hand pressed into his nether regions realized, “an ngéilleann tú dom a bheith olc?” (Do you think me to be evil?) Neal saw the fingers of his hand on the table were shaking, he could the pressure building behind his sack, and there were drips of sweating rolling down his back at a pace of tortoise v hare. With what little control he had over his body he shook his head the barest hint of no.

“Le do thoil lig dom cabhrú leat é seo a chríochnú.” (Please, let me help you finish this.) His head weeble wobbled on his neck. Ms. Carney wanted to assist him further? After he used his body as a weapon brandished against her, after he used his words as bullets targeted at her center mass, after he just implied he meant her body to suffer the physical ramifications of his ministrations. He was not worthy of such an offer. 

Peter knew the words being leveed were significant and would either bring peace or destruction. The lady in black (and a heavy dusting of white) urged the man across from her to meet her eyes. “Tá comhad ag Peadar.” (Peter has a file.) Blue eyes worked there way up from the table where he had been staring at the pace of climbers in December at Mount Everest. “Míneoidh sé seo, i bpáirt, mo rannpháirtíocht (that will explain, in part, my involvement.) 

Neal took in the cover of the unassuming government issued FBI stamped manila folder. His mind went back to a teacher reading aloud from John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, “As happens sometimes, a moment settled and hovered and remained for much more than a moment. And sound stopped and movement stopped for much, much more than a moment.” He now knew the importance of that moment, the one when movement stopped.

Once he viewed the contents of file he could never go back. He could never go back to the before, there would only be the after. With shaking fingers he inched the file from in front of Peter bring it to rest before him. The man in the ruined suit jacket laid his hand flat on top as if to hold the contents in even if just for a short time more, “an bhfuil tú ag taispeáint dom tú féin a chéasadh?” (Are you showing me to torture yourself?) Neal made sure to hold her gaze his eyes filled to overflowing with guilt.

The lady in the knee high Doc Martins smile was as lugubrious as it was understanding, “Níl.” (No.) She brought her hand to rest next to his as if to bring her side of the drawbridge. “Ní mór duit fios a bheith agat nach bhfuil tú i d'aonar. Shéid Bancroft agus Pratt mo shaol freisin.” (You need to know that you are not alone. Bancroft and Pratt blew up my life too.) 

Peter knew that despite the face he had zero idea what was said, when Neal placed a hand over hers that the fury trapped inside his five foot eleven frame had washed out onto the ocean setting the captives free. The man in the red tie squeezed her hand with the smallest indent of pressure. 

“Gentleman, would you mind if I started on dinner?” The soon be chef alighted from her perch. Peter waved a hand towards the kitchen as if to say ’yes please.’ While the lady worked on cooking what Neal would come to find out was in fact little chickens (of a sort) he opened the cover of the file folder. Peter took a long finishing sip of his warming beer. He placed the bottle down on the floor by the table leg. 

The older man leaned in low near Neal. Peter’s face awash with memories of times past and his unvarnished love for the man across from him, “I know you are angry Neal, I know you are hurt. I know you feel betrayed. I know you have all these feelings trapped inside. Please underst—”

Neal silenced the deprecatory speech with an “I understand Peter. We have all suffered.” The younger breathed out a settling sigh with a force matching the winter wind outside, “I am not angry anymore, well not at you or…” The artist turned to the woman fast at work creating something he had no doubt that would taste seven levels past amazing. “Her.” The former Bennett worked his body to settle the fireworks shooting off in his nervous system. 

Neal’s unconditional everything for Peter emanating from the depth of his being, “I trust you.” Peter felt his stomach flip flop at the simple naked honesty from the man aside him. “And her?” Neal brought his body around watching her as she sprinkled fairy dust into her cauldron. “I trust that she wants to see this through.” The younger man wanted to give more. He just wasn’t there yet.

Neal leafed through the medical reports not really interested in trying to absorb more terminology for the word tortured. He flipped through Peter’s report and Hughes reports with the same sense of detachment before pulling the photos free of the little pocket in back. The lawman reached a wide hand over to cover the top one. “If you are looking at this to punish her later.” Neal’s eyes went wide and the forceful remonstrance in the agent’s voice. 

“Then I have to stop you. She might feel that some form of punishment is warranted.” The older man swallowed down the memories of her hanging their like a lifeless carcass barely swinging against the wind that rustled when they swung back the iron door, “But I don’t and I won’t let you do that.” The man in the three-piece suit watched as the man in jeans tried to rein in whatever images he saw in his head.

“I was there Neal.” Neal stared at the hand atop the photographic portals, “I didn’t know if it was a rescue or recovery.” Peter’s Adam’s apple bobbed before continuing, “I didn’t know if I would find a pulse.” The younger man’s hands tightened at the implication. “I held her body while Hughes removed her handcuffed wrists from the hook…” The younger man’s hands tightened on the edges of the photos as if he were the one holding her body. 

“I held her Neal, I held her frozen body wracked with the smallest tremors a body can give to still provide signs of life while the medics dug the cuffs from her wrists.” The agent brought his free hand to his chest. “I was the one her blood ran over in ribbons and waves. So if you mean…” Neal placed his hand over Peter’s much as he had hers moments before. 

“I am not looking to punish Grainne.” Neal breathed through his calming breath cycle of breath. In through the nose, hold for eight, out through the mouth, hold for eight. After investigating his face for signs of deception for what seemed an eternity, in reality a few seconds, Peter looked at the man in the chair to the side of him, he doubted he even knew he used the Gaelic pronunciation of her name, he removed the barrier wall. 

With tightened hinges in his hands Neal picked up the first photo. The lady now in the kitchen chopping and dicing’s head was hanging to the side as if she had fallen asleep standing up. Her hands restrained over her bowed head. The felon could make out the telltale lines of Smith & Wesson Model 104 Handcuffs, the kind used for maximum security. His eyes took in the vintage cast iron meat hook they were locked over.

He could not see most of her face in the picture as her hair obscured that landscape. What he could see were the derited brick walls adumbrate behind her. Their shape and color informed they were a mixture of clay most likely from the banks of the Hudson and river sand. Which informed him the building was in New York and constructed sometime in the 1930’s. Though why that suddenly seemed important to him, he wasn’t sure.

Neal’s blue eyes locked on to the area that now held a long white scar, it was flayed open like a fish on display at the market. The residuum of her camisole was more crimson than its original petal pink. Her arms were streams of blood and froth. Peter touched his knuckles to lend aphonic aegis. Neal hadn’t even realized his hands were twisted into the portrait of the house of horrors. 

His errant curl bounced across his forehead as he nodded his ok to Peter. Even though the man in the chair in the three-piece suit knew he would never be ok again. His eyes traveled down her body, her pants looked as if they had been hemmed with a cleaver. Neal focused on the missing fastener at the top. Peter must have sensed what held his veiled surveillance. “No.” Was all the layman said to the unasked question. Neal swallowed down the bile at the back of his throat threatening to drown him.

Her ankles were fettered to the ground in what were those? The historian of law enforcement jewelry pulled the photo closer, Providence Tool Company Leg Irons (circa the Civil War). The skin on her calves was raked with indents and welted over with so much blood, he couldn’t tell about her feet because again the canvas was covered in bright red sauce.

The tintibulation of the Five Star oven jostled the men out of their projector show of times past. Peter looked over to see the chef slide the red Le Creuset baking pan out using his mother in laws potholders. She would be happy they were seeing some action. The lawman watched as she moved the stainless steal Williams and Sonoma pasta pot to the sink. 

Neal gently as if he were handling her body not a photo of it placed the picture down on the table, the next shots were close ups of the wounds on her neck you could see bone peaking out like a needle searching for thread, her wrists with there many circles, her blacked eyes a Rorschach of subconjunctival hemorrhage, her broken nose (this is why the glasses never sit straight,) a lacerated cheek, this was why she always wore a layer of foundation, it wasn’t enough to curb her freckles but enough to dull the scar. 

He stilled his fluctuant fingers before reaching for the next one. The younger man knew the older one was watching him in attempt to provide him easement and just the barest hint of caution. He moved on to the following photos, they were binder clipped together facing in towards each other. Neal brought his face to Peter’s. The lawman’s voice tried (and failed) to remain equable, “they are of a more intimate nature.” 

Neal carded the pictures back to an orderly stack, placed them in the flap that had previously held them secure and closed the folder. He needed air like a man trapped in a house on fire. His feet were out the door before he realized his exit. Winds worked their fingers through his wildly bouncing hair. Snow fell like pellets from a wood chipper, fast and furious at his face. 

He could feel his heart pounding in discordant punches trying to free itself from the meager confines of his chest. He needed to scream out everything trapped inside, he wanted to collapse to his knees in prayer, the urge to just throw something hard and watch it break like they had broken… His ears heard the door open, of course Peter would come to check on him. He could just imagine what his present state displayed.

“Peter its…” His words walked off into the wind slicing through the air around him. For a second, just a second the time in which it takes a your eyes to blink, all he saw was ichor dripping off her like icing on a fallen cake. When Neal blinked he realized it was just her, her freckles and some wind burned cheeks. Her etiolated hands tucked safely into the pockets of the chicken adorned apron.

“Ní i bpíosaí.” (Not in pieces.) He worked at the rocks in his throat she was offering him comfort. She inched closer to him ever vigilant to keep a buffered distance. “Ní i bpíosaí.” (Not in pieces.) She repeated, understanding that he was seeing the violence in the photos and meshing it with his own experiences of brutality and force. 

The man in the blood stained Bassistoni’s eyes were heavy with rain threatening to fall from his overcast skies. His hands tried to clench, as watched her try to stamp out the fear running across her face like ants across the boardwalk. As he reigned in his breathing and brought his view master more into focus he could see she wasn’t afraid of him. She was just overwhelmed by the enormity of the day (and night and what was almost certain to be a longer night yet.) 

They heard the front door open. Neal’s first instinct was to place himself in between her and a preserved threat. Her eyes welled at the base instinct of the gesture; he sought to protect her from harm. She swallowed the tears down into the cave in her heart; there was no commination, at least from the man in the entryway. “Its Reece.” 

She watched as their breaths swirled in to the night as snow found its way to dust their bodies as if confectioners sugar. Her smaller hand found his larger one. She never actually touched it just hovered near it as a show of solidarity and something she wasn’t even sure she could name. Without a backward glance Neal walked through the back door of the Burke house, leaving the lady standing alone snow toping her mountains. She had known her time with Neal was borrowed. 

With steady feet the lady in black, white and gray followed the felons path back into the warmed townhome. “Grace” Reece Hughes called out his arms open for a hug. She walked right into the waiting embrace. “Reece, it is so good to see you.” The older man rested his chin on her head the belayed a comfortableness born out of long acquaintance. From his vantage point he could see the file, his knowing gaze moved the file to Peter to Caffrey who looked ready to be ill. (Apparently things had been delved into before his entrance.) He squeezed the young lady in his arms tight before letting her go.

“Do I smell What’s up Chicken up?” The former white collar ASAC teased to break some of the tension swirling in the room like cyclone ready to touch down at any point. The lady next to him giggled touched that he would recognize her dinner based on ole factory wafes. Peter smiled at the old reference of a favorite meal. Neal took in that she called him Reece that the older man hugged her and then joshed with her. The Reece Hughes he knew never even cracked a smile.

The chef walked back into the kitchen towards what the artist could only surmise was What’s up Chicken up. The homeowner went about the task of setting down table wear and the antique trivets that had been holiday gift to El from Moz for the serving dishes. Peter secured another beer for himself and snagged one for the newly joined dinner guest. He held up the red wine bottle to Neal who only shook his head no. To complete his domestic pursuits Peter brought out pitcher of that funny fruit water El had chilling on the top shelf in the fridge.

What’s up Chicken up made the table. Along with chickpea pasta in lemon sauce with a light caper overlay. Sautéed red and yellow peppers and topped with green onions. Sugar cookies that tasted as if angels dusted them with heavenly applique and biscuits that made every man at the table’s mouth water. 

Once everyone had their meals in front of them, those eating at Burkes Diner were able to talk about how to the further the performance of White Collar: To Catch a Criminal Boss. Furthering plans were made, changes and updates to the performance were meted out and contingences added, just in case. Upon conclusion Peter told an aproned adorned Grace he would take care of clearing the table, washing and storing the dishes. The chef just laughed him off saying, “those who cook clean.” 

The sage lady knew the men at the table needed a minute to talk amongst themselves, say things they didn’t want her to hear and worked to give them that time without making anyone feel bad about. By the time the kitchen was clean, Reece had donned his utilitarian Navy pea coat left over from his time service and his wool fiddler’s cap. 

The former white collar ASAC held out his arms for a hug good night from the bun toped woman in the apron. She was more than happy to oblige such a simple request for affection. Reece was a good man, with a good heart. When he went to release her back to the room, he remembered to add a little something that would make her chuckle. He brought his lips close to her ears whispering so only she could hear. Her following laugh and smile made all the men in the room relax into their first easy smiles of the night. With a nod to the room the senior man took his leave. 

Peter turned around to the duo remaining in his suddenly very cramped house. Grace murmured something about the laundry basket and Neal, Neal stood locked in battle with the file, which had been relocated to the mail area. Once Grace had returned from depositing her cooking covering and the used kitchen towels with the little chickens on them (a private joke had turned into a running them) into laundry hamper she went about the task of reapplying her still sodden coat. 

Peter remembered his manners after fixating on Neal who couldn’t break his chess match with the file. “Grace, its late. You can stay in the guest room. I don’t really think you should try heading out to the island in this weather.” Her lips smiled, but her eyes didn’t. She couldn’t stand another minute of be locked prisoner in that house. All she could feel was the blanket of tension hovering waiting to suffocate them and the oozing of venom emanating from that file that held the man in the three piece suits attention.

Still Peter’s offer came from a place of genuine love and affection. She had spent many a night at the Burke household, many. Tonight however would not join that number. She needed out of there like a birthday celebrant needed the candles out of the cake. “Thank you for the kind and generous offer Peter.” Grace slid her jacket on buttoning it up to the top and pulling the wet lapel up to protect her neck as best it could in its sadden state of affairs. “I will be—”

“Coming home with me.” Neal simply explained she was coming home with him. Her eyes widened at the former Bennett’s period at the end of a sentence statement. Peter sought out her eyes to make sure this was a decision she felt safe with. They hadn’t exactly been roses in the garden with each other the last few hours. Her brown eyes traveled the length of the man who had rendered the uncompromising decree. 

Her wooden legs carried her over to Peter. The lady swung her messenger bag over her should before hugging the older man in jeans, whispering quietly into his bent down ear “he means me no harm Peter.” The agent swallowed at the sonar vibe he was emanating, he hadn’t even thought that Neal would harm her. Not physically at least, Neal would hurt himself before he raised a hand to the lady in the soused wool coat. However, the MENSA level brain trapped inside the coal head will the bouncing in the wind curls knew a great many words and how to apply them for maxim effect, the wounds that words leave often stay with you when the bruises fade.

The young man again in his marred overcoat held the back door ajar as the lady left the confines of the older man’s hug to join the native of DC outside. Neal poured all the words he could not say into the look he gave Peter as he closed the door with one single finger tap at the frame. The fifty year old felt his legs give as he saw the seemingly small movement from the CI’s hand, the one that made the biggest impact on his tormented soul. The home own sank down into the chair at the table with the view and looked out the door for a long time into the night.

December 3, 2013 On Route to 351 Riverside Drive, (June’s Apartment), 9:31PM

A swirling storm of screaming silver littered white confetti atop their coats. Grace sank her hands as far as they would go into her diminutive pockets. She stood patiently as the flakes whipped at her head, landing in her uncovered ear. Her eyes watched as the man beside her turned on his Berluti heal careful not to slip on the glistening expanse and headed down the back path filled with its rancid leftovers and fetid pools of slime. 

The five foot eleven man continued at a pace that forced her much smaller stride to almost run to keep up with him. Neal looked over at her feet as the Doc Martin’s sunk in the snow mounds with a crunch and a munch. Why was he doing this to her? Bending her to his will in the one way available to him at the moment. He slowed his stride down as the tightness in his groin reminded him that he was not built with the testicular fortitude to perpetuate such acts of opprobrium. 

Eventually the obmusent duo made their way to fly infested subway station both careful to veer around the pool of curious liquid at the bottom of the stairwell, then onto the subway car their only riding company a young set of boys engaged in a furious tango of tongues and a wizened older gentleman with his border collie (safe in a bag so as not to break the subway rules.) 

With a sigh born of utter emotional exhaustion the lady missing her hat and gloves collapsed down next to the man who had just hours earlier called her a woman of many talents almost leering with barbarian delectation when he followed up “it is a great shame that I have not been able to sample more of them.”

Grace folded her hands over in her lap. For a long time she said nothing, what really at this point was there even to say? The lady with the again bluing hands sat thinking about that verbal slap and why she still felt safe in returning to his apartment in an empty house where no one would hear her scream. 

Eventually she moved her head over, wisps of her bun falling around her chin tickling at her jaw, to where his hands were stacked loosely like hers. She focused her lens on the blood dried at the edges of his cuffs, how it had marred his white shirt, his beautiful jacket, how it was still there now after all this time, how he hadn’t even thought to wash as it. She flashbacked to the one clear image in her head of the dried blood on her wrists.

The lady with the memories of long past was just about to say something to her seatmate when the subway announced it was time to exit the metal coffin. She dutifully rose as he did maintaining the silence he had throughout the sojourn back to the Upper West Side. This portion of their trip the man in the Stetson made a concentrated effort to walk at a pace she didn’t have to practically run to keep up with. 

Not that the man astride her wasn’t still fuming, she could feel the clouds of anger rolling off him like plums of factory dust seen even know in the distance. He just lost a little of the coal stroked fire in his furnace, he was literally running on the fumes, they circled him like vultures over their prey. His coat swirled as if he were a villain in a movie as he trudged up the steps, he kept his hat-covered head bowed as he worked the lock and key.

December 3, 2013, 351 Riverside Drive, (June’s Apartment), 10:01PM

Grace slowed almost to crawl as they approached the house at 351 Riverside Drive. Neal glanced back at her with a discerning set of eyes. He noticed how she hesitated at the entry stairs her right foot hovering in flight almost as if her wheel sought touchdown, her glasses covered eyes were locked on an image far far away only she could see. “Ciallaíonn mé aon dochar duit.” (I mean you no harm.) He offered reverently as if he was whispering into the confessional box at church. 

The lady half in flight was lown for such an extended duration the gentleman at the top of the mountain didn’t think she would respond to his round about offer of alms. “Táim cinnte.” (I am sure.) She brought her head up to his general location. “Áit éigin istigh tú féin ciallaíonn tú sin. (Somewhere inside yourself you mean that.) 

Ms. Carney truly believed he meant her harm? He would never raise a hand to her in harm. (Never say never it almost assures it is going to happen.) Neal’s hand tightened on the door handle, he had become a Caffrey true in true if someone associated him with violence. The man with such permanent reminders of those acts littering his canvas bowed his shoulders in shame. 

The toe of an obsidian Doc Martin landed on the first step, peaking out beneath the white flakes that covered it as if in the center of a snow globe. She was making a definitive statement without even using her vast lexicon. ‘I am taking the first step Mr. Caffrey.’ Still her next words set the pulse in his neck into overdrive. 

“Tá a fhios agam nach bhfuil aon cheart agam ceist a chur.” (I know I have no right to ask.) The other black boot partnered the first. “Tá a fhios agam go bhfuil údar maith leat i do chuid feirge.” (I know you are justified in your anger.) The lady covered in a foundation of ice and snow surmounted another step. Neal worked at calming his bobbing Adam’s apple. 

Whatever it was he thought he was expecting her to say, it was not that following peripetia. “Le do thoil, lig dom cabhrú leat.” (Please let me help you.) The air around them was a thicket of white flowers. The wind whirled around them in an angry vortex. The street was losing its black to the teardrops from the sky. Her head tilted from the second to last step, another hair had escaped her chignon snapping wildly at her chin.

When the former Bennett thought himself able to speak without the millions of emotions trapped inside him leaking out like a spilled wine bottle he responded with as few words possible, “Cabhair liom?” (Help me?) Her eyes focused from whatever she saw on the screen in her head to his, her gaze didn’t waver, her face didn’t welt. She brought herself cautiously up the final stair so that she stood equal to him, careful to extend her indigo hands in an ‘I mean you no harm’ gesture.

Grace understood how hard it was to accept help, help you didn’t even know you needed. She had told him “níl tú i do aonar,” (You are not alone) and she meant it for as long as he would allow. “Cabhraigh leat,” (Help you) she cupped her hands over his wrists never crossing the barrier into touch. It must have been the wind rushing the sideways snow past his face that was the wetness that had found a downward trickle down his alabaster surface. 

Her eyes never left his, she just watched him, her hands hovering over his in prayer. His knuckles graced the inside of her palms with the faintest of touch, barely one vane on feather made contact with her as the man with the blood stained wrists backed up and bid her to follow him into the darkened house on the Upper West Side. 

Two weary to the bone federal servants labored up the great expanse of the treene stairs almost as if their feet were to heavy to carry their loads. Words were rendered obsolete as the duo crossed the threshold into the rooftop apartment. Each in their own way cognizant that it was more than just a wooden frame they made passage through.

Neal shuffled almost as if he were carrying a ball and chain over to the dressing area afoot the queen-sized bed. He worked his coat off of with the determination of a last stand. His fingers found the hanger almost by route. With automatic movements he sleeved the snow heavy, toner heavier cashmere garment. 

This was his body’s one allowance for undressing without assistance. When the five foot eleven man went to remove his gray Brioni he found that his hands quite without his permission were shaking like a sifter set too high. He felt more than saw the shadow of a presence behind him. 

When he turned slowly (his whip fast turns would not make the scene while she was near, not for a long time) he noted that she was sans coat and sweater. His eyes locked on her undraped arms making their way down to the permanent jewelry encircling her wrists. To relay she meant him no harm she turned her palms over as if to show a card trick in Central Park. Then rose her fingers in question. He offered the only answer he thought capable at the moment, he turned at an angle, her hands were softs as clouds tickling at the sky as she slid his jacket off, making sure to slow the movements as the woolen fabric lifted from the dried ichor at his cuffs.

Sweat trickled down the small of his back as if snow had fallen down behind his collar. His blue eyes honed in on her fingers as she carded the jacket on the other hanger. Her body found his in the shadows once more, her eyes asking for silent permission to continue. 

The thief looked down at his hands racked by continued tremors, the tools of trade, his rock solid never wavering in the face of danger hands, he had jumped off skyscrapers, leapt from planes, tunneled through catacombs with hands that never even flexed. 

He raised his blue eyes up to her and nodded the barest essence of yes. With steady fingers he was the envy of she worked to loosen his tie from the confines of his vest. Absently he thought to himself it had to be a double Windsor. The tightness of the Carlos Santana silk neck piece (a gift from Moz) almost halted his breathing, at least that is what he reasoned with himself, as he felt her fingers a top his breastplate. 

Once the lady in the black Doc Martins with the rose colored rivets had loosened the red noose from around the man’s neck, she inched it over his head working at not ruffling his curled under the weather conditions hair, that one little curl in the front bounced to and fro despite her chary actions. She laid the tie in sympathy with his coat along the base of the hanger.

Grace could feel the air around them hovering as if they were in a snow globe, the rest of the apartment just out of touch. The scent of cedar permeating from the bed behind him was tickling at her nose. It was then she realized she was touching a man inches from were he lay. She scrunched her toes up as far as her steel toes would allow.

Neal watched as her fingers loosen the buttons from his vest, one by one by one the constriction in his chest eased, as he was able to take in a deeper breath. Her blued hands slid the binding device off one arm careful not to snag on his akimbo elbow and then down the other. Joining it on the hanger with the other members of his dressing cabinet.

Her eyes took in the expanse of his chest, the landscape only covered by a thread count higher than her sheets at home and blood spatter. He hid muscles, valleys and groves beneath his armor. She wrinkled her nose, how many of those had been marred by inclement weather?

The native of the District of Columbia felt the hair on the back of his neck extend, the back of his knees were quivering as if a huge gust of the freezing air fustigating outside had hit them with their gale forces. This time he knew the squinching in his Brioni pants was not brought on by anger. He waited with a tense breath to see how she would unburden him from the confines of his ruined Bassistoni shirt. 

If she made note of the proturbate forming beneath the zipper of the gray trousers she didn’t do it to the Neal’s visual confirmation. His eyes skittered around the room in an attempt to anchor his thoughts away from the fact her hands were at his hips, her fingers perilously close to his private affairs. She pulled gentle at the tuck above his pants as if loosening a strawberry from a fruit tray, proceeding to drag the shirt inch by out inch away from its trapped encumbrance.

Once the garment was free the man heard the lady’s exhalation of breath. Without any input from him his body reacted on instinct to her mussitations. Her response was to place her frozen palm on his heart; it took him a moment to settle on what she was saying over the fireworks exploding below her hand, “Ciallaíonn mé aon dochar duit.” (I mean you no harm.) 

There was no way around her not noticing his erratic breathing, every breath he tried to take filled with the scent of her shampoo, roses and peonies was it? Her garden was intoxicating he thought as he drank in the smell from the petals. When she had concluded her veneration to his soul she lifted her hand, suddenly he found that he missed the weight of it holding his heart in his chest. 

Grace waited while seconds clicked down on the antique metal clock on his nightstand. Neal knew she was allowing him the dignity to make the choice if he wanted to guard himself from her seeing his wounds. The man in the untucked shirt couldn’t have stopped her even if he wanted to, which he didn’t.

Her body moved closer into his space, she could feel the hotness of his breath as it chugged across her bowed necks in waves of steam. She could smell the leather and honey from his aftershave, she could feel the heat radiating from just below his surface. 

The lady in black brought her hands up the pearlized buttons, her pretty painted nail sliding behind the first one. Neal couldn’t control the rumble his body gave his mountain was rolling like an avalanche. Of all the women to underdress him and the number was great though not as enumerate as people liked to believe. Not one had done so with as much care and respect as he was being shown now. 

To most women he was simply a gorgeous specimen of manhood. He was a beautiful carved piece of marble for them to grab at hold at, as Sara had done in the vestibule of The Woolworth Building. He was effulgent blue eyes they could swim laps in, a chiseled chin they bit in animal frenzy, honed cheeks for them to maw at and raw naked sex appeal they wanted to rut with. They found his conman’s smile alluring and his magnetism irresistible.

The man in the shadows looking down at the woman below him had no doubt Ms. Carney would agree he had a certain debonair flair she might even agree that he was handsome. She was not undressing him in an effort to bed him; she was removing his armor so that she may help him. She was helping Niall. Because what she saw and what all those other women saw were different. They saw the con where she was seeing the man.

His eyes skirted just past her neck as her head stayed low to her work. He could see the end of the white scar as it wrapped just around the collarbone. Her potpourri flower garden was passing past his lips; he could almost taste the flowers. He took in the black of her shirt and malacodermous peaks below it, he looked at the short legs covered in the color of night, she wore armor like he wore armor. People see what they needed to see. What they needed to see was someone who blended into the background, who faded away in obscurity. 

His body flinched as she neared the remaining buttons that hovering over his rocky crag. Her brown eyes locked on his face with more understanding than was due him, her smile a smile she would only ever share with him. He knew that this lady all in black was seeing Niall Caffrey the man, not Neal Caffrey the con. 

Her head found the penumbra once more as she moved herself lower to finish her task. His eyes sought out the moon in the sky above, anything so that he would not see her silhouette at such an angle. As the last button gave he felt the air sneak under the shirt as she moved the sides over towards the edges of his ribcage. 

“Táim chun na cnaipí a dhéanamh ag do chaol na láimhe anois.” (I am going to do the buttons at your wrists now.) The rain once again threatening his clouds would not fall. He swallowed down the squall hovering just near the periphery of his landscape, and inclined his head for her to continue that wayward curl bouncing about. 

Her fingers worked at the right, easing the first button from its stitched holder, then the second. Her eyes flitted between his wrists and his stomach, she knew he was aggrieved he couldn’t quell the earthquake shuttered that his body gave. With everything she had the lady with the snow-drenched bun eased the cuff wide as the fabric would allow. Using only two fingers she sought to remove the pieces of fabric imbedded in the dried blood with the utmost care. The pulse beneath those digits was pounding like federal agents were there to come to take them away.

She moved to the left wrist, the man in partial undress watched as her neck flushed crimson with the continued close contact. He knew she could feel the steady beat of his pulse, the gush of the winds leaving his mouth in erratic bursts. The former Bennett wanted to offer her some extension of comfort. He was at a loss as too how to proffer. So the man standing in front of a woman while she unbound his wrappings did the one thing he could do, allow her to comfort him. 

She worked the buttons on his left wrist; they were frosted with his ichor icing. Her hand hovered in the air as if one of the flakes of snow outside, pausing for the smallest of moments before easing the cuff apart. When her hand made contact with his skin his stomach shrank back with the contact of skin on skin. His balls clonused a hair at the slide of the one finger around his radius. 

Her Smurf hands were the texture of sandpaper and the temperature of ice. Even so her touch was infused with gentleness and peace. Grace took her time removing the fabric on the wrist that had suffered the brunt of the metal restraint abuse. Once the thread had been unpicked from the stich, she weltered around his body.

Neal felt her behind him close enough that his marbled haunches could feel the touch of her clothing. She rose her arms up almost resting her wrists on his shoulders never quite making contact as her pincher fingers removed his once fine men’s shirt from his body, eventually freeing him from the chains of the fabric confines. The shirt evaporated with the lady as she moved to float towards the kitchen.

Before he was conscious of what he was doing, Neal stayed her with a hand, fingers really not even a full circle of a hand. He wanted, no needed her to know she was free to step back or step in. She brought her brown eyes up to meet him in question at such a never initiated physical touch. 

He urged her into a hug praying to the Heavens that heretofore never listened to him that she not startle at his body cylinders firing haphazardly. She hesitated only a second before bring her arms around his waist, laying her head against his heart. He enjoined his, what had she called them his big strongly muscly arms to encircle her. Vigilant not to leave bloodied tracks across her back.

Neal heard muffled words from where she had fit right under his chin, they were quiet, oh so quiet, “go raibh maith agat.” (Thank you.) Thank you? She was thanking him. For what? And then it dawned on him. She was thanking him for trusting her, not to hurt him and not just with the removal of his shirt, the removal of his battle dress. His big strong muscly shaking arms tightened in response. She whispered something else towards the percussioning of his chest then rested her forehead to his breastplate allowing him all the time he needed with her. 

Slowly he brought his hands down her sides to rest on her hips before releasing her. The intimacy of the contact was lost on him till he felt the solidness of her twin towers, till he saw the bounce of the lose hairs around her chin, till he felt the area beneath his hands calefacient to her touch. The lady in black didn’t startle or pull. She simply stepped back and headed towards the kitchen folding his marred covering on the counter. 

He ran a calming palm over the lower half of his body and one through his hair. His body suddenly felt as if he were covered in acupuncture pins. His eyes rolled like marbles on a hard wood floor towards were the lady stood in the bright light of the sink area. She had rescued two clean towels from the drawer, filled a bowl with warmed water. It was not lost on either of them the shutter her body gave as she completed the action of adding the fluid to the circled container. 

Neal scooted by the Doc Martin covered feet with only, “beidh mé ar ais” (I will be back.) Grace swallowed the tears that formed in her heart. The man with the bloodied wrists was allowing her to do this because it had to be done. One day she knew in her soul, he would find a way to balance the scales. Using the bowls with the water and the dirt, scrubbing and washing was a private part of their belief system, reverent actions. 

The man now barefoot she realized returned with a small basket of supplies. He placed it in the center of the small table and waited for her to offer instruction. She bid him to sit which he did fully till he felt his back straight against the lines of chair. The nursemaid make quick work of fanning out the tools she would need to cleanse his wounds, the physical ones she noted in her head. Her elorited hands submerged a brown Egyptian cotton washcloth into the warmed water of the basin afore them. Taking great care to wring out the excess so that it would not drip and make water tracks across the injured mans forearms. 

As she debrided the valleys and groves about his wrists the lady in black made note of the unconscious flinch he gave on the right hand when the astringent played a nerve like a violin during the solo part of a symphony. She grimaced in tune with him as he rolled his bottom lip when she dug a shard of embedded cotton out of the zippered skin on his left wrist. When his wounds had been brought to pristine and the water to crimson she placed the cotton squares in the water to hide them from view.

“Cén fáth nach bhfuil tú ag cithfholcadh?” (Why don’t you shower?) She threw away the small bits of cloth she had removed from the flayed bracelets of alabaster skin. “Nuair a bheidh tú críochnaithe,” (When you are finished) her voice was surprisingly solid as she explained the last part of her Florence related tasks her eyes still locked on the angry welts from Peter’s silver jewelry “gléasfaidh mé iad.” (I will dress them.)

Neal stood up and headed to the safety of a shower with all possible haste before he lost it completely. He turned the water full blast to the left just as he had done this morning, he let his pants fall to the floor in unison with boxers, jumping just a bit when the silver belt buckle bounced off the white tiled floor. The light above the sink washed over his anklet and for one moment in time everything stood still then he heard the terrace doors open. The naked man save for the bling about his ankle stepped into the scalding water that would never clean the parts of him that felt dirty.

Brown eyes stared at the first winter storm beating her drums outside. Her ears heard the agonized cries of the wind as it bounced between the gargoyles. Her fingers worked to release her from her blouse inching it over her shoulders finally freeing her torso from the straight jacket. She folded the cotton blend covering atop her water logged jacket and favorite old gray sweater now a soggy mess like cheerios left to long at the bottom of a bowl. 

She released the ties in her bun letting her hair cascade down her back in waves joining the pieces already loosened from her sprinting along side the man in the shower. She folded her glasses and placed them like a cherry a top a Sunday on the members of her closet already astride the seat. 

Her body sank into the opposite chair, the one recently vacated by the man with the errant curl. She noted he left the seat warmed for her. Grace worked to find a steady breath. With each shutter his body gave and each confetti piece of cotton she removed her memories flashed back to the nurses doing the same to her.

Her hair washed over the table as she bent to undue her laces. Without focusing on anything but the snow falling outside the lady half in black pulled the ties out of the rivets one by one by one eventually getting to the point where she knew she could slide the steal toed coverings off. She set the boots under the chair housing her garments. 

She stared at her socks for a moment taking in the debris from the drier that velcroed to random spots on the coal-covered surface. Her frozen fingers found the elastic and with a tug snapped off the left and then the right one. She folded them into her boots as if to protect them from the wind about to whiz past them.

With a straight back and undeterred purpose in her stride the Irish lady walked outside the doors barely registering the near freezing temperatures and the silvered shards of winter punching at her undraped canvas. With one diminutive click she brought the balcony door to a close, trapping the hurricane of swirling emotions inside with the heat. 

Bare feet padded their way to the opposite side of the rooftop deck used some nights before, those actions and words whether the man in the shower believed it or not were in peace. These were in flagellation. Her leaden legs couldn’t hold her any longer. 

She collapsed to her knees on to the blanket of white watching it fly like fireflies into the darken night. A bone weary exhale escaped her chapped lips with a cry. She could feel the harden tile of the balcony floor digging into her knees. Only mildly aware of the water soaking into her pants. 

This job was so much harder than she thought. Peter and Reece had come to her oh so many weeks and weeks ago, they had asked her to lunch. Inviting her to dine with them was not in and of itself strange they met often, well as often as their schedules would allow for. The anomalous part was the location the Burke household. Meeting as the brownstone was usually reserved for special occasions. 

“We have a way to make them pay.” Reece had started without preamble or warning. She had listened to the older man while taking in the tight way Peter had carried himself, his normally straight shoulders hunched over. His eyes darting around the room, his fingers absently though forcefully pulling at his tie. “And we need your help.” 

They needed her help to catch the man responsible for her scars, the remaining one. The other was gone to where evil go when their tenure on earth has passed. If the turncoat ASAC that had been at White Collar for 2.5 seconds was to be believed, because Peter had shot him dead in cold blood. Nothing could be farther from the man she knew. Nothing. 

The lady in black asked Reece to take her to visit him. She wanted the man who literally held the broken pieces of her in his arms to know that he was not alone. He hadn’t looked at her, or even around her, his eyes stayed on the table. He thanked her for coming, begged her not to return. As she sought her leave his question stalled her in her tracks. “Why didn’t you ask me?” She hadn’t asked, because she didn’t need to. 

On the way back from the Brooklyn facility she asked Reece what they were going to do? He had told her with the fury of a thousand and one suns radiating from his gut that they needed to wait. All would settle and then they would work towards a plan. So she waited and waited. And this was the start of the plan. 

They had monished her about Neal. Everything was upside down right now. His birth father was the man who shot Terrance Pratt, not Peter. Somehow the felon had convinced his missing progenitor to confess so that the agent his son was assigned too was released from the detention center. She remembered how Reece had added, “his friend” when explaining how Neal was attached not just at the ankle but the heart too. Peter’s hands were shaking when Reece said that, but he made no move to argue the validity of the words. 

For the play to win the Tony, everyone needed to believe in the rift between the two. Taking in the state of Peter’s affairs she didn’t image in would be that hard. Peter was not himself he was jumpy, he was angry, he was a man tossed in the deep end of the ocean without a lift raft, out of his mind with too many emotions for one who’s sole philosophy on the subject was ‘cowboy up.’

Reece and Peter, though mostly Reece as Peter’s vocabulary had shrunk like wool in water to a few sentences mostly consisting of ‘yes he right’ or ‘stupid hats,’ presented her the synopsis of the man beneath the water he was MENSA level smart a veritable walking encyclopedia on facts and figures, an accomplished conman who was able to become just about anyone a dignitary, a professor, a roof layer (that was the only time that day she saw Peter attempt a smile.)

The man with the startling blue eyes was an enigma wrapped up in a Devore. Reece said he had would be the very definition of the word charming, he was debonair and he always sought to flourish. Peter piped up at this point interjecting he was also wary, he would look for an in, it was just his way he needed to know all the angles so he could understand the outcome and act accordingly. 

They both went on to asservate with sanguine confidence, that the felon was NOT violent and he would NOT seek to harm her. They would never even think to place her in a situation where that would become the result. Nor did either senior law enforcement agent think he would attempt to con her because she was so plain. Reece said those last words almost as if begging for her apology.

The felon would be banished to the morgue (records department) to unearth a set of old case files related to an unsolved mystery. Though seemly nugatory the Newgrange case was salient to the play at large and very specifically chosen. If Neal and his honking brain cells could absorb all the information housed in the blue (they had not used manila then) file folders and follow the leads, it would be the final piece of the puzzle (or so they thought.) 

When the records clerk first saw the white collar CI at her counter all the attributes they pontificated about were in regal display. His dapper dress, his keen mind, his practiced charm. None of those were as significant or glaring as the hollowness in his eyes as if the candle in the lantern was flickering at dim, the vacancy of spirit there was no joy in his words just a privation of all he held dear. This was a man who had been provided the trust and the faith he so desperately sought and the love he so desperately needed. (Not that he would admit that.) And this was the man who had lost it.

And what did she do? She played those losses against him. The man who cut such swaths with his hats and his suits might have show clemency for her providing him an office space to hunt down the details in the file, he might have looked past the culinary delights she provided more so because he really did find them delights he might have even excused the assistance she provided to his lady friend Sara as the strawberry blond hadn’t really offered much choice in the matter. 

There would be no Caffrey pardon for the sacred use of the bowls. He might be a conman of the finest order, he might employ deceptions on the daily, he might use all the little facts he has garnered about a person to work them, even he had lines he wouldn’t cross. What she did was a traducement to their beliefs.

She bowed her head on the ice-covered tile in supplication. Her hair fanned out quickly absorbing water weight as flakes landed upon the darkened tresses at a rapid fire pace. Snow imbrued her thin cotton camisole and her wool pants, the wind permeated her bones till there was simply no part of her that had not merged one with the elements about. 

The barefoot lady lay prone for sometimes allowing winter to encircle and envelope her in castigation for the abuse she meted out to the man with the marred wrists. She felt water trickle down her back disappearing beneath the band of her pants; there was a comfort in becoming one with the storm.

Grace was vaguely aware of the change in space around her as if everything was stilled to a freeze frame just before the shutter closed and the world started again. From somewhere in the distance much farther than the few actual feet it was the lady with her head on the redden tiles heard the click heralding the portal between outside and in had been breached. 

She continued her veneration to the universe without so much as toe twitch. Neal remained obmusent not wanting to caesura her private moment. They both needed to process the day and all that had happened in their own ways. If she needed to do it prone in the snow, then as much as he wanted to pull her into the warmth of the apartment he would allow her to continue to be a snowwoman.

The man in his sleeping attire wasn’t going to disrupt the lady in a partial state of undress’s praying. As much as it shot arrows through his sinew, he wasn’t. Until the outside lantern lighting snapped at the ground in an iniquitous macabre dance of eburnean light bouncing off the scar on her ankle.

The observer swallowed the bile that raised in his already much to raw throat forcing it down the roughed tunnel. ‘You can either be a con or a man. You can’t be both.’ Neal made the choice before he even understood the ramifications of what he was doing. The Irishman eased himself into the open space between the balcony and the lady in prayer. He knelt down next to her; he splayed his arms out in veneration with her. 

When the snow covered woman sat up her lower legs tucked beneath her she looked over at the man next her who mirrored her position, there was no acting her quiddity was on full display. Her brown eyes were filled to the brim with regret as if a coffee cup near to overflow, her face contoured with lines of agony at causing someone else suffering. Her little hands were clasped so tightly together her fingers were almost white with loss of blood flow.

The man in his night ware took in the bluish tint of her canvas all that was on display etiolated under the harshness of the weather attacking it from all sides. Her body had a sheen of ice across it as if to highlight the blue hues. “Le do thoil teacht taobh istigh.” (Please come inside.) She looked at him, then the balcony and eventually the snow falling as if taking in the world about her for the first time all night. 

She rolled off her feet and pushed up off the ground. He could see more of the scar at the base of her back. These were her reasons for helping. These were her reasons for entering into the White Collar production of to Catch a Criminal Boss. She stood in silent sentry waiting for him by the door, her feet hidden below the bank of snow. They needed to get in before she was a solid block of hypothermia.

The lady with the snow covered hair and water soaked clothing needed to say so many things to the man in flannel pajama bottoms and the blue tee shirt, so very many things. All she found she could lend voice to was, “an féidir liom iad a ghléasadh?” (May I dress them?) One look at her unguarded face and Neal knew that wasn’t all the blue lady wanted to say. However, she was methodical in her thinking and her patient needed his wounds tended too.

The pajama clad man sat down in the chair he recently vacated, again putting his hands out palm up. She moved to his side, she opened the gauze rolls, the ointment and the tape. She washed her hands with warm water and the kitchen soap, which smelled heavily of Meyer lemons. The nursemaid leaned over her charge, her hair tickling at his tee shirt covered shoulder. He felt the ends teasing at the where the cotton ended and the skin began. 

Grace applied the ointment vigilant in her task of working it in without causing pain or discomfort. A skill Neal fervently wished he had especially in his formative years. The Smurf wrapped the right wrist first making sure to double the padding near the ulna where the metal dug in at a severe angle. She moved onto the left with efficiency and care. When the camisole-clad lady was sure the tape wouldn’t come lose she put the remaining contents back in the basket. 

He assumed when she opened the bottom cupboard it was only to store the empty packaging in the small trashcan beneath the sink. Instead, in an effort to provide him closure the lady pulled out a metal pail and a box of long matches. He watched as she filled up a bowl with water and then as she quick like a bunny walked outside and filled another with dirt. He had to work at keeping his stomach from cramping. 

When she came back in from the cold harsh winter wonderland of the balcony she placed the bucket in front of him with nary a thump or a shimmy. She turned on a very pale foot grabbed the matches and handed them to him. She then set the generic white bowl filled with water on one side of the metal pail and the other generic white ones filled with dirt that she had been balancing in her hand as if she were a carhop waitress, on the opposite side.

Her head nodded towards the original bowls were they sat on the top of the wine rack. “Ionas gur féidir leat iad a dhó.” (So that you may burn them.) He swallowed at how utterly calm she was as her blued finger pointed to the water “ionas gur féidir leat iad a ghlanadh” (So that you may clean them) and then she pointed to the dirt “Ionas go bhféadfá iad a adhlacadh.” (So that you may bury them.) 

Neal worked his rapid-fire brain to connect to his vocal chords. Every good con knows this was why you never used private beliefs in your schemes; there was a point of no return. Laying prostate in the snow he realized something. She hadn’t been conning him when she came that night to help him. She had been herself when she bowed with him, scrubbed with him and washed with him. Probably more herself than even she was aware. 

He got up and stored the bucket and the matches back under the sink; he merged the contents of the new bowls with the old. His heart repeating the words they had that night. The man in the flannel pajama bottoms that were soaked from his snow prone prayer turned to the lady so blue and in an almost mendicant manner whispered, “cith le do thoil tá tú reoite.” (Please shower you are frozen.)

After his heartfelt plea for her to find hot water, it occurred to woman in the sodden clothing and bare feet; she couldn’t feel most of her body. It was in fact as the man across from her said, she was frozen. Grace walked over to her messenger bag and rescued it from the post of the chair. 

“Tinn faigh tú éadaí tirim.” (I’ll find you dry clothes.) Her chuckle startled him out of the solemnity of the night. Finding he couldn’t make his brain make his mouth use the right words he offered a raised an eyebrow instead. 

“We aren’t exactly the same size Mr. Caffrey.” The Irish lady had spoken English to him. She had gone onto to use the Mr. Caffrey moniker. The last thing she had called him was Niall. Mr. Caffrey and English (he thought with an internal chuckle mixed with something he didn’t want to find a name for) seemed foreign now.

“I WILL find you dry clothes.” He smiled as best he could, “ and I will leave them at the door.” She lifted the edges of her lips up in acknowledgement of his unfettered sincerity. The man of the apartment bid his overnight guest to follow him down the hall towards the bathroom. Neal showed her where the towels were folded behind the paneling in the wall and where the soap was should she feel more comfortable with a new bar, finally where there was an extra toothbrush. Her tight lined smile apprised him of how close she was to the edge of her precipice; she had fought it as long as she could.

The former Bennett left with all possible haste gently closing the door with a click upon his exit. The mostly blue woman turned the water on full to the left much as the gentleman before her. As she went to undue the buttons on her woolen work pants she realized just how hard she had been fighting, her body started shaking like an old truck going over the Roosevelt Island Bridge. She could feel the cries inside bubbling like a witches cauldron to boiling over the sides.

Suddenly Grace just couldn’t hold it in any longer. Her wooden legs gave way as she slid down next to the antique claw foot tub with the little scratch on the right front foot, which she would learn one day held a secret key. Neal matched her movements on the outside of the bathroom door, his backside landing with the nary a sound, a side effect of years of cat burgling. 

The man in the pajamas sat listening as the sobs racked themselves out of the lady by the tub. He continued his attendance by the bathroom barrier until there was no water left in her well. Some few minutes after she shed the rest of her armor and climbed into the shower, willing the water to wash it all away.

When the lady wrapped in only a towel opened the door she found an old pair of dark gray sweats with the cuffs cut off leaving the ankle area open wide, an oversized sand colored Henley with pockets and tucked underneath it was a black tee shirt missing the collar and shorn along the bottom. She laughed at the black tee shirt. This was the man in the other room’s way of a peace offering. She grabbed the sartorial choices and shrunk back into the steam entrenched room.

Once Neal heard the door open and close he set about the tasks of making her special spice and everything nice cocoa. It was going to be a long night and they were going to need chocolate fortitude. When the lady in his old work out clothes joined him in the kitchen he could see just how red her rims were, being a gentleman he chose not to exploit it.

Neal handed her a hat-adorned mug (a gift from El) and bid the former Smurf to join him at the couch. Grace opted to curl into the chair across from it instead. The five foot eleven man handed his guest a pair of warm chenille socks with paintbrushes all over them. (A gift from June’s granddaughter he told her) and a huge heavy flannel blanket sans brushes, it was a simple dark gray with black piping.

The lady placed the mug down after taking a super large sip, not unlike a man who has his first drink of water after being stranded in the desert. She eyed the socks with a smile playing at her lips he was surprised when instead of putting them on her feet, she placing them over the arm of the chair. Maybe she wasn’t a sock person, he mused. Some people weren’t. His heart beat a sad somber tune when she folded the blanket over the other arm. 

“Did you…” The lady across from him started in English before taking another warming sip from the mug. “Ar fhéach tú tríd an gcomhad?” (Did you look through the file?) She switched back to what she considered their language. The change to Gaelic was significant the man on the couch realized. When she spoke in Irish, she was speaking from her heart, not her mind. 

“D’fhéach mé tríd an gcuid is mó de.” (I looked through most of it.) Neal responded respectfully he wanted her to know above all else he understood how much trust it must have taken to share the documentation of her torture. There really wasn’t another word for what he had viewed. “Bhí roinnt grianghraf pearsanta ann nár bhreathnaigh mé orthu.” (There were some intimate photos I did not look at.) The lady displayed in the intimate photos was not sure what to say at his clement act of deference so she nodded her hair bounced over her shoulder as she did.

She went to speak when the words finally found there way to her mouth, he was quicker on the draw. “Tá brón orm.” (I am sorry.) His blue eyes locked with her brown. “Tá brón mór orm mar sin.” (I am so very sorry.) His placed the cocoa bearing mug down on the coffee table with nary a sound, reaching his hands out as if to push the air between them away, “tá a fhios agam, nach bhfuil an cás seo ina bhfuil, muid éasca ag ceachtar againn.” (I know this situation, the one we find ourselves in, in not easy for either of us.) 

“Chomh feargach is a bhí mé, níor chóir go ndearna mé riamh go mbraitheann tú faoi bhagairt.” (As angry as I was, I should have never ever made you feel threatened.) The man in freshly changed into sleeping pants reached his hands toward the lady in his work out clothes in supplication. His heart was beating like the drum section of a marching band playing at Homecoming. Neal needed to say these words; they were clawing out of him like a sailor searching the shoreline for a lighthouse.

The conman pointed towards the suit, “tá a fhios agam cad a chiallaíonn sé chun páirt a ghlacadh.” (I know what it means to play a part.) Neal pointed towards himself, “tá a fhios agam cad a chiallaíonn sé a bheith agat do chuid féin a cheilt. Do chuid féin fíor. Nó cad atá fágtha de do chuid féin fíor.” (I know what it means to have to hide yourself, your true self, or what remains of your true self.)

She sensed the change in the air. The heaviness that hovered over them had passed. The person sitting on the couch shared words that had been trapped behind an iron door, hidden in the safety of his heart where they lay dormant until there was someone there to help him unlock gate and let them out. Her heart rate increased in speed as if she were vying for the top spot at the racetrack.

The man on the couch stood up pulling his shirt from his back in one solid movement. Her eyes softened as she saw his body prepared to spin, such as act of faith, to turn your back on someone not knowing what they will do. Then he turned so her brown eyes could drink in the sight of his back his fingers eased the elastic from his pants down turning at an angle so she could see one of the angry scars that curved off his back down to the callipygian below. 

“Agus tá a fhios agam cad é cuid de tú féin a cheilt.” (And I now what it is to hide a part of yourself.) He turned a bit the other way so she could see the edges of another carving in his alabaster marble, ”cuid, mar sin mared, ní féidir leat a leigheas riamh.” (A part so mared, you can never heal.) Neal could feel the explosions beneath his surface, landmines firing off at random intervals. 

How would she react to the sight of his beaten body? Every time a woman saw the scars, he told them a fanciful story or ten about all the crazy stunts he pulled, he slipped on a cable, the wire gave through, oh that’s what happens when you play with fire. Not one ever questioned him. To them the scars just made him more dangerous, more intoxicating. 

Her hands were much warmer when she sought to touch not just his body but the very part of his soul desperate for physical kindness. Despite the mutinous clonus humming deep in his apex, when her fingers ghosted over the scars he didn’t flinch over the feather like movements. The abused man allowed the lady aback him to feel the groves and valleys of the long ago provided reminders of the repercussions of his actions. Her touch felt like aloe to sunburn, soothing.

Grace studied the chalkboard noting the multitude of little white lines with tightness in her throat, her toes scrunched as she thought about how many blows it took to leave so many tick marks. She imagined even his wall at Sing Sing didn’t have as many marks as his back did. 

He could feel the gentle breeze of her breath as it whistled over his exposed surface; he could feel loose hairs tease at his rib cage as she laid her warm hand on top of his back. Neal rolled his bottom lip in and blinked as his errant curl bounced in his eye. She used her fingers as a brush painting over his lines in sweeping movements. When she lifted the brush from the canvas he found his missed her traveling over his beaten path. Neal sank down on the couch as if he his body were anchoring itself to the seat, sleeving his shirt as he did. 

She remained standing her body gently outlined by the light in the kitchen. Blue eyes watched as the lady in front of him removed her battledress, piece by piece first the gray Henley, which she folded over the socks, then the black tee shirt joined the socks. Below his borrowed shirts lay a different camisole than the one made sodden by the snow. A curious conundrum for another time. When his eyes weltered over her chest he also noted the lack of bra beneath the thin cotton material. 

Her thankfully no longer blue hands swept her hair up, raking through the stray strands as her fingers worked to put the tresses into a messy bun. Her attributes strained at the attenuated blockade holding them in with little success. When the lady in bare feet bent to rescue a pen off the coffee table to secure her hair from falling he could make out the outline of scars beneath the camisole. 

She turned around, all the way around so that her back was fully to him. Neal swallowed at the return of trust she was proffering him. She remained still standing as if she were the Statue of Draped Female at the Getty Museum. The inscription in the air reading in bold I trust you, I trust you not to hurt me. This was a person who like he had been opprobriumed past the point of savagery and yet or maybe because they understood the gravitas were willing to place faith in another not cause additional pain.

Was it only hour’s ago he had turned around for Peter this morning? It seemed like years. Peter needed to know that the man in the funny little hats trusted him, that he his CI and friend (and whatever else that unnamed something was) hadn’t lost faith in him. And showing Peter his back while allowing the lawman to put him in cuffs was the biggest way he could think to illustrate just how unconditional his trust in the fifty year old was.

Her fingers didn’t find pause or chary as she pulled the black camisole up and over her neck allowing it to hang loose in her hand. Neal drank in the sight of painting before him, an abstract of shapes of varying colors and hues, there were deep lines with edges and grooves, small circles caped with large swirls and a potpourri of slashes as if the painter decided he didn’t like what he had done and wanted to shred the surface. 

Grace could feel his study of the outline of her plentiful embonpoints. He was respectful of her dignity in that he did not lend a finger or hand to trace the ridges that ran along their sides. His blue eyes strained to get a closer look at the pattern. A crisscross he was all too familiar with.

The feel of his hands as they found the gash almost mirroring his that went along the base of her spine beneath the elastic burned almost to the point of searing like branding into wood. The man aback her was gentleman enough not to acknowledge her body’s unconscious reaction to his ministrations. 

Slowly he traced the gnarled skin that traveled below the surface of the sweats. Grace tried to breath normally; when that didn’t work she worked at her centering breaths, one long in hold for five, one long out hold for five. No one had ever touched her like this. It was as if the artist were painting her skin. 

His hand came to rest on the crest of her rump, as he took in the tattoo that was stamped so small above the valley below. As he stepped back and removed his digits Neal noted a scar that started low on her hip and wrapped around the front of her torso as if a bird in flight perched on her side and folded his feathers around her. 

The lady in the borrowed clothing worked to reapply undershirt. She could feel him in her space again, close enough that she felt his knee tickle the back of her legs. His right hand found her hip as two fingers at the pace of a turtles crawl traced line that wrapped a macabre ribbon around her packaging as she turned around to face him. The prestidigitator felt her stomach spasm at the intimacy of the touch, his hand rest gently atop the scar where it disappeared below the pulls of the night pants. Her body was burning up as if she was the candle and he was the match. 

She waited patiently for him to lift his hand. When he did she pulled the thin layer of cotton the rest of the way down, then reapplied one of his loaned garments the black tee shirt, he could still see the thin straps of the camisole peaking out from the jagged area where the collar used to be. She found the chair with unsteady legs, almost collapsing in to the security of the seat folding the Henley over her lap. 

Neal observed the lady across from him as if she were the central piece of art the Met. She was not embarrassed at his seeing her scars they were a part of her as his were to him. She didn’t startle or shy away from his touch. Nor was she self-conscious at him seeing her, whatever parts he saw or didn’t see. 

When the dancer stood up and turned away from her, the audience member could feel the fear crashing through his pours like aqueduct carried water to the valley. His pants spilled off his hips onto floor. There was a thick reddened scar at the inside of his thigh peaking out from the hemline she recognized the burn marks. Her heart beat akin to the final moments of Mahler, Symphony 9 in D at the thought of what else in that vicinity might have been mared by heat. 

Brown eyes lifted to the marks that delved beneath the top of the garment. Absently the lady in the chair noted he wore lose boxers with blue dotted stripes and a double seamed cuff. The girth of the ticker tape that disappeared along the elastic line was several inches thick. This was a man who had the near life beat out of him. 

He dipped the pants low enough she could see more than half of his full moon, yet it was the jagged scar that kept her eyes, not the resplendent beauty beneath it. The scar was the man and he was entrusting her with the physical history of Niall, not the part he played. He was allowing her to see the carvings on his marbled walls and to understand what it meant to hide a part of himself; a part so mared he felt it could never heal.

When the former Bennett pulled the sleepwear up her eyes landed upon a scar along his uncuffed ankle. He saw her note the disruption of alabaster as regained his place on the couch. Her eyes weltered over his body, eventually locking eyes with him for a long time. His face a swirling whirlpool of unrestrained emotions without words he told her there were many other scars he hadn’t shown her and not all of them were on the canvas.

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes nor did her hands shake, with as much grace as her name held the lady in the chair stood up maintaining eye contact with the man on the couch as she loosened the tie at the sweats and let them pool at the floor as if water lapped over the edge of the tub. With steady feet she stepped out of the pants, she wasn’t in the least bit chagrined and distressed with his seeing her body.

His blue eyes descended to the area below her knees, he had the answer to his earlier in the night pondering of why the knee high boots, her calves were a cave walls of hieroglyphics, her ankles bore permanent circles courtesy of the Civil War era cuffs that fettered her to the ground. His eyes dipped lower to her feet; they were full sky of constellations. 

Neal brought his eyes slowly up back from the ground, zeroing in on the burned over pieces of skin at the inside of her thighs, it was as if someone laid a hot poker there and forgot it. His borrowed shirt nipped over the top of her flower covered underwear as she turned around for him see the ribbons that wrapped around her legs and up towards the most inner part of her thigh. 

He looked at his suit with fire burning the back of his throat, never again would he question her armor. They both in their own ways were protecting themselves from being seen. She had learned as he had, people only see what you want them to see, rarely if ever do they attempt to look below your waters surface.

Neal came up behind her slowly his body scant molecules from hers making a conscious and concentrated effort to keep his movements non-threatening. He could feel her breathing change; see the flush on the tips of her ears and the pulse at her throat tintibulated at the nearness of him. He brought his hands to cup her shoulders and slowly inched her body around until they were face to face, so close the their toes were touching.

Her neck tilted just the barest decline, the flannel pajama bottom clad man could smell his sandalwood soap on her, he make out the tree bark and lemon from the cream he used to keep the skin beneath his cuff from chaffing. His private affairs tightened at the awareness of her bathed in him. 

The barefoot man tried valiantly to mitigate the fireworks display of tension threatening to irrupt from him. With a single finger to right her fallen head Neal urged her to make eye contact with him, her brown eyes found his in an effort to calm the raging emotions engulfing her in flames. 

With gentle hands he reached down the length of surface, his eyes locked on the cuffs at her ankles, one day his would come off, hers never would. Neal held out the right pant leg for her to slide the covered limb in, then the left eventually bringing the pants up over backside and hips until once again she was redressed. Absently he noted this might be the first time he helped a woman reapply her clothing.

“Fiafraigh díom cad is gá duit a bheith ar eolas agat.” (Ask of me what you need to know.) Grace offered with such steel that old buildings would envy her foundation. “Cuirfidh mé freagraí macánta neamh-mhothaithe ar fáil duit.” (I will provide you honest uncensored answers.) She maintained level eye contact as she dropped her bag of bones into the seat, her voice never wavering, “Bí chomh feargach agus is gá duit a bheith.” (Be as angry as you need to be.) 

Neal’s fingers curled into his plaid pants as she continued talking. “Más gá duit troid, ansin troid.” (If you need to fight, then fight.) His face darkened like a Bronx alleyway after midnight at the thought of any semblance of fighting with the lady sharing his clothing, awash in his smells. 

All his anger has disappeared into the ether; they were so far past any of that now. She stood undaunted and unflinching in front of him as the most private parts of her being on display (so much more intimate then the parts used for sex) and she was willing to face any opprobrium he thought to met out. 

Neal couldn’t contain the shutter that racked his body as he held her eyes. He worked to keep his voice steady as if it were out for a Sunday drive, “níl aon ghá agam troid.” (I have no need to fight.) The man on the couch watched as the lady relaxed into the chair, she slid his socks on laughing a bit at the wild colors, how she folded the blanket over her legs. “Níl aon ghá agam troid.” (I have no need to fight.) He repeated his voice cracking as he thought of the tic tac toe littering the expanse of their chalkboards. 

She nodded, the pen that had been holding her hair slipped out of its tuck. Her hair cascaded about her in waves of chestnuts and reds. Her eyes were filled to overflow with the tsunami of emotion threatening their beaches. Her feet slipped on the chair onto the hardwood beneath. His blue eyes washed over her as she rose out of the chair, unfurling like a bird to flight. Neal found he just couldn’t watch someone walk away again he closed his eyes expecting to hear the click of the door. 

The couch gave under her weight. Her hair teased at his arms and the little patch of stomach were his shirt rose up. Her hands were gentle as she tucked the blanket around them; she fit herself into his side as if it were the long missing piece of a puzzle. His hand cupped her hip to him as she laid her head on his shoulder. 

A/N: Just in Case…

Irish to English Translations Are As Follows:

Tá a fhios agam go bhfuil fearg ort. Cibé rud a theastaíonn uait a rá leis an Uasal Caffrey, éistfidh mé go hiomlán. = I know you are angry. Whatever it is you have need of saying Mr. Caffrey, I will listen in full. 

NÍ MÓR dúinn imeacht. ANOIS. = We MUST leave NOW.

Tá brón orm. = I am sorry.

Ní mór duit cuimhneamh go bhfuil tú bruscar = You need to remember you are trash. 

Níor nimh mé é. = I did not poison it.

Tá a fhios agam = I know.

Déanann tú? = You do?

Sea. = Yes. 

An bhfuil dóiteán ann dó sin? = Is there a ritual for that?

B’fhéidir gur chóir duit a bheith nite níos deacra? = Maybe you should wash harder.

Tá roinnt salachar taobh amuigh is féidir liom triail a bhaint as anois. = There is some dirt outside I can try now. 

Ar an seans go dteastaíonn rud éigin níos láidre ná uisce uait le bheith glan.= On the off chance that you need something stronger than water to be clean.

Bhí a fhios agam go raibh tú go maith i do phost. = I knew you were good at your job. 

Ní raibh a fhios agam cé chom lo h maith go dtí anocht. = I didn’t know how good until tonight.

Aisteoir agus fealsamh. Is bean tú le go leor buanna. = Actor and philosopher. You are a woman with many talents.

Is mór an náire nár éirigh liom níos mó díobh a bhlaiseadh. = It is a great shame that I have not been able to sample more of them.

Niall. bí cúramach cad a deir tú ina dhiaidh sin. = Neal, be careful what you say next. 

An ngéilleann tú dom a bheith olc? = Do you think me to be evil?

Le do thoil lig dom cabhrú leat é seo a chríochnú. = Please, let me help you finish this.

Tá comhad ag Peadar. = Peter has a file. 

Míneoidh sé seo, i bpáirt, mo rannpháirtíocht. = That will explain, in part, my involvement. 

An bhfuil tú ag taispeáint dom tú féin a chéasadh? = Are you showing me to torture yourself? 

Níl. = No.

Ní mór duit fios a bheith agat nach bhfuil tú i d'aonar. Shéid Bancroft agus Pratt mo shaol freisin. = You need to know that you are not alone. Bancroft and Pratt blew up my life too. 

Ní i bpíosaí. = Not in pieces.

Ciallaíonn mé aon dochar duit. = I mean you no harm. 

Táim cinnte. = I am sure.

Áit éigin istigh tú féin ciallaíonn tú sin. = Somewhere inside yourself you mean that. 

Tá a fhios agam nach bhfuil aon cheart agam ceist a chur. = I know I have no right to ask. 

Tá a fhios agam go bhfuil údar maith leat i do chuid feirge.= I know you are justified in your anger. 

Le do thoil, lig dom cabhrú leat. = Please let me help you.

Cabhair liom? = Help me?

Níl tú i do aonar, = You are not alone

Cabhraigh leat, = Help you,

Ciallaíonn mé aon dochar duit. = I mean you no harm. 

Táim chun na cnaipí a dhéanamh ag do chaol na láimhe anois. = I am going to do the buttons at your wrists now. 

Go raibh maith agat. = Thank you.

Beidh mé ar ais. = I will be back.

Cén fáth nach bhfuil tú ag cithfholcadh? = Why don’t you shower? 

Nuair a bheidh tú críochnaithe. = When you are finished.

Gléasfaidh mé iad. = I will dress them.

Le do thoil teacht taobh istigh. = Please come inside.

An féidir liom iad a ghléasadh? = May I dress them?

Ionas gur féidir leat iad a dhó. = So that you may burn them.

Ionas gur féidir leat iad a ghlanadh. = So that you may clean them 

Ionas go bhféadfá iad a adhlacadh = So that you may bury them

Cith le do thoil tá tú reoite. = Please shower you are frozen.

Tinn faigh tú éadaí tirim. = I’ll find you dry clothes.

Ar fhéach tú tríd an gcomhad? = Did you look through the file?

D’fhéach mé tríd an gcuid is mó de. = I looked through most of it.

Bhí roinnt grianghraf pearsanta ann nár bhreathnaigh mé orthu. = There were some intimate photos I did not look at. 

Tá brón orm. = I am sorry.

Tá brón mór orm mar sin. = I am so very sorry.

Tá a fhios agam, nach bhfuil an cás seo ina bhfuil, muid éasca ag ceachtar againn. = I know this situation, the one we find ourselves in, in not easy for either of us. 

Chomh feargach is a bhí mé, níor chóir go ndearna mé riamh go mbraitheann tú faoi bhagairt. = As angry as I was, I should have never ever made you feel threatened. 

Tá a fhios agam cad a chiallaíonn sé chun páirt a ghlacadh. = I know what it means to play a part.

Tá a fhios agam cad a chiallaíonn sé a bheith agat do chuid féin a cheilt. Do chuid féin fíor. Nó cad atá fágtha de do chuid féin fíor. = I know what it means to have to hide yourself, your true self, or what remains of your true self.

Agus tá a fhios agam cad é cuid de tú féin a cheilt. = And I now what it is to hide a part of yourself.

Cuid, mar sin mared, ní féidir leat a leigheas riamh. = A part so mared, you can never heal.

Fiafraigh díom cad is gá duit a bheith ar eolas agat. = Ask of me what you need to know.

Cuirfidh mé freagraí macánta neamh-mhothaithe ar fáil duit. = I will provide you honest uncensored answers. 

Bí chomh feargach agus is gá duit a bheith. = Be as angry as you need to be.

Más gá duit troid, ansin troid. = If you need to fight, then fight.

Níl aon ghá agam troid. = I have no need to fight.


	12. “Which one am I, the man or the one behind the mask?

A/N: Top of the Day Readers! This is a little FYI for those of you wondering about the extended delay in the posting of this chapter. I tried unsuccessfully to post several times over the last month and a half. After much discussion and many requests for assistance progress was made. 

TRIGGER WARNING/READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED: This chapter may not be suitable for all audiences. This chapter contains VIOLENT and MATURE themes.

“Which one am I, the man or the one behind the mask?  
Which comes first, the courage or the fall?”  
~ Civil Twilight, The Courage or The Fall

December 6, 2013, 351 Riverside Drive, (June’s Apartment), 8:31PM

“Tá a fhios agam cad a chiallaíonn sé chun páirt a ghlacadh.” (I know what it means to play a part.) Neal replayed the conversation with the woman who bound his wounds from early in the week over on the movie projector in his sable colored head, “tá a fhios agam cad a chiallaíonn sé a bheith agat do chuid féin a cheilt. Do chuid féin fíor. Nó cad atá fágtha de do chuid féin fíor.” (I know what it means to have to hide yourself, your true self, or what remains of your true self.)

The man in the remnants of a Tom Ford suit was sitting outside in the falling snow looking like the bronze sculpture of John Harvard in the yard of the Cambridge Massachusetts university, a frozen sunken shell of meat suit in a metal coffin. A seemingly forgotten wine glass (if the frost about the rim was any indication) teetered like a high wire acrobat in his left hand. 

A bottle of 2001 Shafer Cabernet Sauvignon Hillside Select stood partnered with the left leg of the scrollwork-covered chair. “Agus tá a fhios agam cad é cuid de tú féin a cheilt. Cuid, mar sin mared, ní féidir leat a leigheas riamh.” (And I now what it is to hide a part of yourself. A part so mared, you can never heal.) Bloodshot blue eyes stared off into the night sky; he had provided her a private viewing of the delitescent intaglio about his alabaster marble. 

However he had been expecting the lady near always in black (not that night) to respond to his canvas, it was not meet his show for her tell. The residuum’s of ticks along the five foot five ladies back were as deep as they were plentiful. The trancheur (artistic carver) had worked themselves into a frenzy as they slashed into her with a cacoethes fury, that his nursemaid suffered no spine damage was a wonder.

When his pants pooled around her in a wave of cotton the first thing he focused his lens on was the crimson transversal that lay along the inside of her ivory thigh. The earth was scorched; as if the tablelands of lava erupted from the volcano and had freeze framed in place. 

Absently the man whose toes had become one with the red tiled deck ran his fingers along his inseam where the area had been near to deflagrated from a heated lug wrench. That day had started out so calm wandering up and down the aisles of the museum taking in the irresistible pulchritude of the art on display prior to his return to the palladium silvicolous dwelling. 

The five foot eleven man remembered the moment his skin started to molt as if he were left forgotten on the barbeque all day to blacken and burn. The smell the seared flesh gave a sickeningly sweet mix of smoldering fat and almost melting plastic. The smoke that rolled off the inside of his thigh was the reason he never used candles in the bathroom. Nineteen-year-old Neal held strong when the phantom man in the dingy feted bathroom found him with iron and chain. 

A clonus tintibulated in his right palm, his eyes locked on the open area. He could still feel the grime seeping into his digits burning into the skin like toxic waste, feel the cracks in the hexagon tile digging into the tips of his fingers as he gripped it searching for anchor against the euthermic ansate merging into the muscles and tendons resting so close to his packaged twins the hairs about them curled into the skin.

His right hand reached molders fingers down to his most private area fingering the indents and ridges along the top of the clay. The woman who showed him more grace than her name bore certain kindred stops on her treasure map of torture. It wasn’t just the plats of land about her apex that mirrored his. The mountain regions of her landscape had railroad tracks permanently etched into the topography. 

He had tried not to drink in the sight of her enbowments as if she were the first step towards salvation for a sinner. For the barest hint of seconds he debated on moving his eyes away from the expanse of her breasts as she stood before him her head bowed but her body uncowered. In eloigning her covering she had provided him her permission to take in her bountiful assets or the visible part of her twin hills. 

Stormy blue eyes continued their nomadic trek across the New York skyline in hopes his mind wouldn’t focus on the memory of seeing more of her than intended. She was far from the first woman who had removed clothing for him, nor was she the first woman to propound her undraped canvas for his inspection. 

Ms. Carney however, was the first woman who had shared of themselves so completely. It was not about the nakedness of her skin. It was about the campestral of her soul. She fed not only his stomach but also his the perdu flinders of his soul. Despite his insensate actions the lady who was more filled with mared parts then smooth helped him remove his armor. She tended to his wounds, not all of them physical. More than all though she wanted him to know he was not alone. 

The wine drink swallowed as the snapshots in his mind moved onto the way her hips lay snug into the sides of his pants as if she needed a shoe horn to fit them in, the small stamp of a tattoo at the base of her back and how the every inch a woman fullness of her backside strained against the trappings of the soft cotton blockade her mounds calling to him as a siren to a lost sailor adrift at sea.

The left hand holding the stemware tightened as the zipper of his pants suddenly stretched across his presently unattended growing need. Neal worked at his breathing. In through the nose, hold for eight, out through the mouth, hold for eight. His right hand carded his hair the lone curl that state atop of the hackly lines of the long healed over scar bounced against the movement and the fustigating winds about the deck.

Neal watched the sky cry, snowflakes falling obliquely against the moonlight. The shards of winter tickling at his exposed skin like whisks of a broom along the floor. Frost found his feet encasing them in fluffy white clouds of frozen flecks of ice. 

The near frozen man sitting ensconced in the chair like a cupcake liner to a metal pan could still feel the warmth of the lady in his workout wear as his right hand protectively cupped about the roundness of her callipygian. Her chestnut waves of grain had teased about the unclothed parts of his skin, setting his body on fire, each little hair a match and he the tinder.

Her brown eyes blinked slowly as her body rustled like leaves on a tree against the cocoon of calefacience his body offered. Instead of pulling back she simply settled into the flames emanating just below their merged surfaces. The concupiscence filled smile that found its way to her wind chapped lips roused (not the only body part to register that look) one from his. For those few seconds they were just a man and a woman nestled together like the missing pieces of a puzzle. 

His fallen chin rested right above her ear as she resettled, the ragged and cruel tip of the line along her neck visible out of the corner of his eye. Her small hand with its sprinkling of freckles had found its way during their slumber to rest upon his taut abdomen. The heal had come to a full stop along the crest of his sleeping pants, the tops of her fingers sussurrused like a wayward stream just beyond the elastic towards his rocky crag. Quite without his permission his anatomy reacted to the nearness of her.

Storm clouds and lightening found her eyes as he shifted his weight the surface that lay below her hand spasmed involuntarily like waves crashing against the rocks during a squall. The tintibulating in his heart was akin clangs from a bell tower like the opening from The Great Gate of Kiev from Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition. The rhythmic humming along under the flannel matched the overtones emanating from his own bell tower. 

As her near spelunking digits climbed their way back up his mountain with a slowness that made his toes tighten into the table below them the lady awash in his personal scents rolled her head into the curve of his neck, each exhalation of her breath on his exposed canvas was sweet sweet agony. His fingers dug into her hipbone and the dough below hands, absently kneading it. 

He had not been able to contain his hearty chuckle as their alarms heralded the end of the quiet moment in the cresting of the morning light. The drum duction to Master of Puppets from Metallica bounced Grace’s phone across the table in kitchen where it lay in forgotten isolation throughout the night. 

Her laugh joined with his as she eased off his side inch by tormenting tarigrade inch. The man of the apartment took in one last inhale of their amalgamated scents tangoing about the air before the lady with the chestnut hair shuffled without out urgency over to bunny hopping iPhone in its sunflower covered case silencing James Hetfield just as the singer started with the opening words ‘end of passion play.’

The Missouri matriculant had wondered if his sans extra sartorial choices overnight guest would attempt to make it home, where ever that may be prior to their required arrival at 26 Federal Plaza to trudge away another day for the man. All she did after turning off the dulcet sounds (to her) of the heavy metal song was to continue her lumbering pace of a shuffle ball chain over to the coffee maker. Sleep had been skint and the call of the nectar was considerable. His suspiration matched her’s as the St. Helena coffee permeated pungent caramel smokestack’s about the air of the rooftop apartment in the Upper West Side. 

Snow continued to assault the outside sitters chiseled cheekbones as if it pearlized bullets falling rapid fire from the sky. The wind danced a crazed can can through his curled sable locks. His toes frosted over in continued fusement with the terracotta tile, he could feel the scrollwork of the metal chairs imprinting into his heels where they as if in a lovers embrace. 

The sommelier merged the rim of the Waterford stemware with his lips. The swallow of the near frozen sauvignon felt as if rime topped shards of glass imbedded into the path on the way down. Neal welcomed the swinging swords of pain as they lashed into his throat, a tangible representation of confirmation that he could still feel. That he would not go gentle into the night. Artist’s fingers lowered the crystal ware down as his elbow perched in a dangerous teeter on the arm of the metal chair.

Bloodshot eyes skittered about the outside space finding the place where they had bowed. The file maven had stayed with him in companionable venerated silence long into night. The ghost of a smile fleeting past his face as the memory the softness of her lips upon his cheek before she took her leave. 

Neal found his throat tightened as his mind traveled much farther back in time when no one had sat with him in silence venerated or otherwise. His ichor-imbrued knees had found the ground for his Uncle. The brutality of that decades past December night no match for the violent disturbance of the atmosphere as the snow raged with the fury of cluster bombs exploding across the Midwest landscape, the gale force winds punched at his body just as the man (if you could even refer to him as such) he had buried some few minutes previous had. 

Born out of unconscious tradition the Traveler in him had merged the dirt with his face and with his blood meshing the worlds together in terrene union. His spin cycle on the washing machine shaking fingers, two of which hung to the side in a macabre dance of wayward string puppetry had scrubbed as hard as the swelling would allow. To this day he could still taste the dirt as it melded like metal under a torch into the multitude of splits that made up the shredded surface of his lips.

Neal wrestled a fluctuant hand through his raven highlighted with chiffon hair purposely engaging the roots in a game of tug of war. Memories of his uncle stirred themselves up in the soup pot of his mind. The words and images were as overwhelming as they were sadistic. Maybe if just tugged hard enough Cairbre would settle back down into the recesses where he had lain dormant. 

The five foot eleven man fused into a borrowed chair on a borrowed deck located just outside a borrowed apartment could still feel the spring of that odiferous grease filled bench seat, how every single time the wheels slid across ice covered roads like a beer glass on an uneven bar surface the jagged edges of the metal coil scourged the muscle and tissue that made up the thin barrier to his all ready swollen marbles filled sack. 

Enervated from the all that had taken place in the barn and unable to keep his arms up or his any part of his hands on the wheel for an extended period of time the illegal driver pulled into an obscured stretch of woods near the Susquehannock State Forest in Pennsylvania. 30,000 acres of Wild Area that would hopefully conceal his broken and bloodied carcass from the world. 

It was only when his hands folded in on themselves resting across the broken zipper of his pants amid a pool of dried blood that the sole occupant of the stolen vehicle (was it really though if the owner had passed on) realized he had not offered a prayer in what should have been a trifurcate after the kneeling and scrubbing. 

Neal had made a conscious effort while leaning against the door of the old gray Ford truck, really the only thing keeping him from collapsing against the pain of flindered ribs not to pray. His last stand against the man who beat him like a ragdoll he sought to destuff. Who the hell would have listened anyhow he wondered? No one that was who. He had prayed his whole life for someone or something. A person to love him or a light to guide his way. Apparently he hadn’t done it right because he came up short on both accounts.

As if to laugh at him like a maniacal clown on a rampage the universe provided him what he sought most though he hadn’t known it at the time or in the way he thought still in those coming months he would learn the first touches of love, what it meant for someone to show you the way and what an education it would be. 

George had wrapped his tree trunk notch sized knuckles on the glass with an insistent staccato thinking the person in the rusted F250 was sleeping off a bender and he would need to rose them from their alcohol induced slumber. The arch of Acebeam flashlight seemed like a spotlight to the occupant who startled from his resting place against the dirtied glass of the window.

Neal honed in his sightline as much as the swelling the littered the crests and valleys of his face would allow. With trepidation in his gut and an unsteady breath compliments of a near collapsed lung he watched the green eyes assessing him like a hawk watches it’s pray. The Forest Ranger on his nightly patrol of the wooded area felt his heart jump to his knees as he realized Neal was just a young teenager who had taking the beating of his life. 

As if he had used a megaphone the older man’s baritone voice carried through the glass barrier separating the law from the runaway. George had been efficient in his kindness when warned Neal he was going to open the door. He requested that the teenager not fight him, his voice broke on the please, rallying for a more balanced delivery when he went on to say he meant him no harm. 

Absently he took a sip of the near frozen wine as he loosened his tie down towards the ridges of his breastplate akin to a noose waiting to be tightened. The barefoot man felt the chill of the red as it settled into the lapping pool of his stomach. 

His mind refocused on that night in Pennsylvania and the first person who ever showed him kindness expecting nothing in return. His body landed with a heavy thunk into the Greek mans sizeable arms like slab of meat tossed down on the counter. The older man caught him easily as if he were a tadpole on a hook.

Neal had opened his mouth to provide éclaircissement, his fine-tuned (even at that age) conman’s tongue failed and words escaped him, the only the found its way from his lips was the remnants of a shattered canine and premolar. He had tried to rescue the fallen dental shards; his palming technique failed him as he focused all his attention on the man in the uniform. To him the law was a harbinger of doom, with all that had transpired in that Missouri barn fear was shorting his brain like lightening to a junction box.

The former Bennett’s body on instinct bowed into protect himself from what he figured to be the cold hardened steal of handcuffs as the federal law enforcement officer took in the blood spatter pattern across his torso. His blue eyes locked on the gun resting on the ridge of the towering mans left hip. 

With gentle hands and measured movements George lowered him to the ground as if he were a porcelain doll that might shatter on roughed impact. The oversized hands of what Neal would come to find out was the excommunicated son of the Pittsburg Mafioso were unflinchingly steady as he felt over the length and width of his fuselage with a well practiced hand. 

The older man had taken in the way the sable hair agglomerated to the teenager’s forehead with a paste of blood and exposed matted tissue. His large fingers the size of Ball Park franks scudded the obstruction in one swift movement so that he could see all of the boy’s eyes. The red of subconjunctival hemorrhage mixed with blue sky regarded him with an equal mixture of physical wariness and emotional exsanguination.

The boy in the tattered and torn gray tee shirt tie dyed with ichor and ripped along the inseam pants had yet to speak. George rested a gentle non-confrontational hand on Neal’s shoulder he could feel the uncontrollable trembles of the mountain below his palm. “I mean to help you son. If you will let me.” Wary eyes ran the length of the man in the uniform again resting on his firearm. The man in green swallowed down the rocks in his throat at the unadulterated fear radiating with the fire of a thousand and one suns at the edges of the brave facade the abused teenager wore.

“Listen, I can see that someone gave you quite the beat down…” let the sentence hang hoping that the boy would fill in the blank with his name. When that request had not materialized an answer the knelling gentleman continued on undeterred, he knew what it meant to broken, bleeding and without anyone.

“I only mean to provide you help.” The word help hardened the steel in the bloodied back (if the reddening of the snow beneath it were any indication.) Whoever had done this to him; they had done so much more than punch him with fists. “Clean and patch you up a bit. Maybe some food and nice warm place to bed down for the night?”

Though the blue eyes that watched him were surprisingly alert, the older man knew it was adrenaline keeping the boy conscious. At some point soon the adrenaline would give way to shock, the Ranger knew he had to break through to the supine in the snow prior to the kids systems shutting down. Worried about the trifecta of blood loss, below freezing temperatures and the inevitable shock, George perpetrated the one action he thought might break through the diming light of the young mans soul and hopefully garner him an ounce of trust (and in hindsight he had told Neal not a knock to the back of the head.) 

The lawman rose from his crouching position and offered display of the ragged, angry scars that ran along his back and onto his hips. The minimal light provided by the headlights on his jeep framing the hulking form in a dark shadowy glow. George needed the broken body of the boy merging with the ice and snow before him to understand that he did know even if he didn’t know his story. 

The White Collar CI could smell the many mixtures of wood and coal fireplaces as their smoke rent the sky almost like the physical representation of Rimsky-Korsakov’s Flight of the Bumblebee as he forced his thoughts from the first lawman to show him kindness. Neal could feel the crispness of the New York air as wind sliced into the nape of his neck with wroth. Angry pellets of snow landed on his exposed throat running like a leaky faucet down his chest halting only at the obstruction of his belted waist. 

The man ensconced in the metal chair felt more than heard when a presence invaded the solitude of the contemplative evening. “Mon Frere,” (my brother) Moz yelled out as he opened the door to the rooftop apartment at 351 Riverside Drive on the Upper West Side, the balding man he been expecting to find the man of the apartment, well inside the apartment safe from the winter and her furious white tears. 

When the closed the door with a resolute click the bespeckled man realized that Neal was not sitting on one of the stiff backed dining chairs while he skimmed through one of the numerous tomes that lined June’s bookshelves. Nor was snuggled in the warm embrace of the library area watching the History Channel. Moz tossed a glance over to the ornate wooden bed frame, nor was his young friend lounging against 600 hundred-thread count covered pillows. 

From his vantage point near the table Moz could just make out the silhouette of a man in a metal chair on the balcony. The young man looked like a bronzed sculpture at the park frozen in time and space. Moz moved his eyes down the back of his friend coming to rest on a bottle of red standing sentry next to the chair leg; it was nearing the halfway mark. 

The older man knew he had to tread carefully; the statuary didn’t often drink to excess. Moz’s monochromatic Chucks carried him towards the heap of bones and blood. Light blue eyes zeroed in on the glass about the DC natives hand, it was nearing snowman statues.

“Hey Moz,” Neal whispered out more than a little scratchy on his delivery as he acknowledged the Friday night visitor. The visitor continued his assessment of his young friend. Neal’s feet such as he could see them through the thick pearl blanket of winter weather pooled about were bare. The felon’s Ermenegildo Zegna dove gray tie with the light white dots was loosen half way down his chest as if tugged as hard as he could and that was the haphazard of angry tug. 

The top buttons undone on the five foot eleven man’s Tom Ford Poplin dress shirt. The once finely pressed Italian cotton garment was untucked and wrinkled; the right cuff was haphazardly rolled up to the sitters elbow. The left looked like Neal tried to match it with the left then just gave up after two rolls; it sat just past his wrist. 

It was then the follically challenged man noted the sodden white bandages around the Missouri matriculations wrists. Moz felt his heart rate increase as if he were skydiving without a backup chute those cloth bracelets were indicators of only one thing. Neal’s words from the previous month echoed in his head. “I would do it Moz, if that is what he wanted. I would hate the smallness of my box. But I would do it. Maybe I even deserve it.” Moz fingered at his rings in an effort calm himself and maybe in hopes they would provide him the right words for the interlocution ahead. 

Given everything that occurred recently with the Suit spending time in the Big House and ALL that they had done in the last few weeks he didn’t understand, to think the Suit would have cuffed their friend, their brother maybe even returned him to that small box hurt his (larger than he cared to acknowledge) heart in a way he didn’t even know was possible. 

“Neal,” Moz worked to keep his voice even at the thought that Neal could have spent time back in Sing Sing and he wasn’t here to provide assistance and support. There has to be a reason that would make sense, that would provide an answer he could process, the Suit was NOT that could an actor, he would NEVER have gone to that blood soaked barn, he would have NEVER asked him for help. 

Moz breathed out his growing anger and asked, “What happened to your wrists?” 

The chair sitter’s ocean blue eyes tried to focus on the gauze dressing about his cuffs. After a few seconds of taking in the white swathe his red rimmed eyes skittered off into the night in search of a different landscape to study. 

At first the Dentist of Detroit thought his friend was drunk, but Neal’s eyes were much to grounded, his dancers body the very definition of tense. The reclining Irishman looked as if one well-placed finger might shatter him into a million pieces of Caffrey confetti. 

The older man took in the rumbled gray Tom Ford pants how they creased into the thighs, the young man always took care to smooth out the plains and valleys. Moz eyed the wetness about the hems; the color difference spoke to a great passage of time in the winter weather. He couldn’t see Neal’s feet they were submerged below the snow that gathered about the chair. 

His eyes traveled back up to his Mon Frere’s (brothers) face. Neal was sad, well more than sad. He was what happens when sad has no place to go. It just builds and builds until every part of your body can’t handle the weight of the emotion suppressed within its core and the sad just leaks out like a spilled glass of water.

Neal’s normally well coiffed sable hair was soaked through curling ever which way, the tips of his ears crimson under the weathers assault, his body a sunken pirates chest empty of treasure. “Oh Neal.” The man in the blue neck scarf needed to relocate the indomitable snow person from the balcony to the warmth of the inside. 

With determination in his movements Moz leaned down and pried the forgotten wine glass from the frozen hand with the blue fingers. “It is time to come inside.” After a few tugs the balding man finally succeeded in separating the wined duo.

“I don’t want to come inside Moz,” The taller man sung out his refusal as if center stage at The Met, “I want to stay out here were the wind blows and the snow falls.” Neal took in the fall of his friends face, the way Moz looked as he had been punched in the stomach and kicked in the nuts. He relented on his stance of becoming a snowman. 

Neal tried to let the Michigan native help him out of the metal coffin, both found the five foot eleven man’s gelid limbs just would not cooperate with the request at first, it took a couple of heaves to finally jack his bean stalk. The pace was as laggard as it was uneven, eventually the duo made it inside the heated apartment with sighs of relief. 

Moz fought against the raging of the wind almost having to slam the doors shut. His shaking hand rested against the pane of glass near the door handle in an effort to calm the storm brewing inside him. What happened to his Mon frère? (Brother) The Suit had provided no information relating to irons and Sing Sing or any reasons why their young friend looked lost on the road of haunted memories.

Neal looked he table where the medical supplies had been, where she eased the shards out of his wrists with a kindness unknown to him since George had stitched his ragdoll stuffing back inside. His eyes washed over to the couch where she had snuggled against him warming him in a way that nothing else could, his body slunk over to the leather furniture on autopilot. 

The barefoot man forced himself down in the same spot he had fallen into a peace filled slumber with the lady with the chestnut hair as if he were impaling himself on needles of nettle and fire. The older man watched Neal with a keen eye he was staring at the couch as if he were seeing a ghost. Something was not right with his friend. Not right at all. 

Neal’s flat words broke the bespeckled man out of his disquieted contemplation, “you have been gone a long time Moz.” Neal tried to focus his eyes on his friend who named himself after a (then) Cyclopes teddy bear. “A really long time.” The visitor swallowed at the raw hurt that surged to the surface like a submerged piece of the flotsam that broke through the waters edge. 

Neal continued, “I didn’t think you were coming back.” The unfettered recrimination emanating forth from the simple statement of fact was hard to miss. As much as the DC native might not say it out loud, both knew he suffered from feelings of abandonment. Moz knew he had been gone much to long. 

“Time is an illusion.” The man still in his walking coat said to the room at large as he availed the rescued bottle of a glass of red; he sipped at the vintage noting pencil shavings and cedar wood. When Neal didn’t even say Albert Einstein to his softball throw of a quote Moz knew that the man on the couch was not all in the present. He responded to quotes on autopilot, it was one of the odd little pieces of the puzzle that made up their friendship.

The traveler had checked in with the Suit on his way over to Junes’ house. The fed said it had been a tough week. The man who he had traveled to the Midwest with might have undersold just how arduous. Light blue eyes ran over the folded state of his friends body, his back might have been straight but his shoulders had rolled in like magnets in search of each other, his legs were bowed in at the knees as if to protect from a direct attack, even his hands had crossed over the zipper of his suit pants.

The older man knew he needed to try and push the man on the couch to share what happened with the Suit, to help remove the bricks he had been mortaring in the wall he was erecting to protect himself against the recrimination, the failing someone he so obviously loved. 

Neal wasn’t alone in the world anymore. The depth of the Suits feelings for his CI equaled that of the CI’s for the Suit. Moz took a thoughtful sip of wine, with Neal he couldn’t perpetrate a center mass hit. All the younger man would do would be to batton down the hatches harder against the squall battering against his ships hull. So round about it was.

“Mon Frere.” (My Brother) Moz waited a beat for Neal to acknowledge his presence. The couch sitter nodded absently. The Dentist of Detroit grimaced; he would take what he could get at this point. “Why were you sitting outside like something out of Joe Conrad’s Heart of Darkness?” 

The quoter made his way over to the chair easing himself down careful to keep a perspicacious eye on the man in the sodden men’s wear. When Neal brought his gaze over to the man across from him Moz could tell whatever or whomever his friend was seeing in the chair, it wasn’t him. They all had demons, the balding man knew the parts they were playing had rattled a few of the felon’s lose. 

“Neal?” He urged gently.

“I’m not alone in the wilderness Moz. I was drinking alone on my balcony.” The emotional exhaustion in the younger man’s voice was hard to miss it leaked out of his pores like loose flour through a sift. Neal ran his hands through his wet hair appreciating the pull against his scalp. When his fingers joined themselves in his lap his could see his bandages were wet. They were tightening into his skin as if manacles of over exuberant shrink-wrap. Neal raked his nails under the edges, he ripped the sodden cotton off with a strangled cry, and they fell silently to the floor in a heap of red, white and soggy mess.

The wine sipper swallowed the red before responding to the half Conrad quote half statement of fact. “Ok Mon Frere. (My Brother) Why were you drinking alone on your balcony?” Neal just stared at him, his face a violent playground of rampant memories and discordant emotions. 

Then as if he flipped a light switch his face weltered into the vacant smile of a sable head Ken Doll. Before him was Neal Caffrey conman, not his Mon frère (brother) or the ghost of the man that had been there mere seconds ago. The Converse wearer felt his heart slide out of his chest. His Neal, not the actor on a stage sitting before him now, never felt the need to try and con him. He missed his friend.

“Where were you Moz?” Blue eyes flashed with the fires of unstrained sadness. “Why were you in the empty immensity of earth, sky and water?” Moz felt his soul constrict with an unnamed emotion, his Mon frère (brother) felt abandoned with the extended absence. He had known he was taking a gamble when he decided to accept the job he had been working on. There was no doubt in rapid-fire mind that this was the most important work of his life. Moz welled up like a damn packaged with branches and bramble at the continued use of the Heart of Darkness. 

His light blue eyes swept over the healing wounds about his friend’s wrists. Barbaric tell tale signs of being fettered in handcuffs. Moz forced the debris caught in his vocal chords passed the bend with a resolute swallow, “Did you do a little time while I was gone?” 

Neal looked down at his wrists, flashing on her easing the healing ointment in vigilant in her quest to not play his raw nerves like a violin, the gentle way she held his palm while she wrapped injuries. How the lady in black was careful to add extra padding where the metal had removed more than its fair share of dermis. The couch sitter rubbed an absent hand over his left wrist. He hadn’t seen her and found he missed her.

“What can I say Moz? I love a little shackle time.” Though Neal’s delivery was meant to infer wink wink nudge nudge about sex games, the light in his blues were not just dimmed they were extinguished. The balding man raised an eyebrow as if to call monkey uncle pants to bedroom shennigating being the reasoning behind the remnants of ‘shackle time.’ 

When Neal knew he hadn’t succeeded in deterring his friend’s inquisition, he resolved it better to just get it over with and be done with the how I would up in handcuffs education. “Peter wanted to teach me a lesson.” Sculptures fingers rubbed at his left wrist in an effort to silence the random shotgun firing of raw nerves. The injured man rested his hand over the bruised area of tenderized meat. 

It was the timbre of the recently restrained man’s delivery that scared the bespeckled man more than the explanation, it was void of any emotion, it was as if he were relaying something mundane like tax law or the uses of peat moss. Mozzie’s eyes grew wide as his young friend continued in that fake plastic tree voice, “It was an erudite week.”

“The Suit,” Moz pointed his index finger towards the thinning bracelets around Neal’s wrists. The entire landscape a kaleidoscope of primary colors. Enraged crimson pulsing like a sign in the red light district, the battered blue of a ships hull crashed one to many times against the rocks, some jaundice yellow and the fading greens of a muted leprechaun. 

The shorter man could make out a few spots were the cuffs had carved deep like a Thanksgiving turkey of a few weeks past below the surface, “did that?” The recently returned traveler shot up out the chair like a firecracker released from the barge. “Mother of Pearl Neal. Why?” His voice cracking like cup fallen to the ground as he questioned, “What lesson did you have need to learn?” Moz paced the small space from the entrance door to the patio doors he wanted to explode anger filled his insides like jam to a jellyroll. 

All that he had done in service of the Suit these past weeks. ALL. The agent had offered him assurance that no harm would come to their mutual friend, brother really. Well, more. There wasn’t really a word to describe how bonded they were with the young man with black hair, chiseled cheeks and alabaster skin. 

His light blue eyes regarded the shattered shell of the man sitting on the couch, the way his body sought to protect itself from impending harm from others and the way he wanted to continue to heap it on himself. The Suit had lied.

It wasn’t the physical damage. That in time would heal. It was the lack of fight left in the bag of bones across from him; the emotional devastation that littered his landscape in flints and shards was hard to miss. Even thought Neal knew it to be a play where he was a supporting actor on a stage, part of him, a larger part than Moz originally thought felt he had failed the Suit and thus deserved the savage opprobrium.

“Who holds the leash.” Neal was extremely impressed he was able to relay those words with a smooth like butter on bread voice, there were no fissures along the fault lines not even a rock in the pathway as the slid out. 

Moz was his friend, his best friend. It was his mission to protect the man in Converse from becoming a player in the White Collar production of To Catch a Criminal Boss. It was best that the balding man thought Peter was still angry over his brief albeit pain filled incarceration.

The pacer halted in his guard on watch pacing. He removed his brown quilted corduroy jacket folded it over the back of a kitchen chair a large victrola patch just visible across the fold. The Detroit native felt his heart tighten in his once shot chest. Moz fought to keep his voice even keeled, “I would say your lesson was learned.” The wine lover topped off their glasses and they sipped in silence long into the night.

December 7, 2013, 351 Riverside Drive, (June’s Apartment), 6:45AM

Neal woke up to Civil War soldiers firing off muskets and cannon’s in his head. He looked over to the couch expecting to see his balding friend supine on the comfortable expanse of tufted leather. The couch was without companion. The bottle of red emptied of its contents removed from the table and placed (he assumed) in the recycling bin. The duo had barely found slumber around 4:00AM, how had Moz found the strength to rise? When had he taken his leave? Where had he headed to at such an early hour?

Blue eyes honed in on stitching along the edges of the leather seat. That morning seemed so long ago. He had welcomed the pail to the sand digs on the couch as he had given his body a few moments to settle back down before rising to silence the church bell clanging of his alarm clock. His eyes gently skirted over to where she had stood still in his borrowed clothing her hair in tumbles and waves of mussed chestnut grain before his fridge in contemplation. Moments later she held tomatoes, spinach and eggs in her hand with a whistle and a victorious smile. 

While he had seen to his morning ablutions, she had worked her wizardry in the kitchen all the while listening to her Spotify on random. He remembered shaking his head as some of the music made its way to the bathroom then the dressing area. It would seem Ms. Carney had an eclectic taste in score. Pieces ranged from Scriabin’s Poem of Ecstasy, which was what happened when symphony went on an acid trip to the old school rap of Wreckx-n-Effect’s Rumpshaker that true to its chorus made you want to “Shake your rump.”

When the man of the apartment made it back to the main area the cook had redressed in her clothes from the previous day, her hair once again locked and secured in a tight bun, her feet protected in her trusty worn Doc Marten’s with the pink rivets. The lent pieces of workout wear neatly folded at the foot of his bed. Neal looked over from his place on the bed to where they lay unwashed on the small shelf in his dressing cabinet. 

His blue eyes found the open space before the door. The lady in her armor had not wanted to accept his offer of additional pieces of battledress. He wondered in that moment why it was that she was reticent to accept his extension of kindness when she shared it so readily. Neal swung his eyes to the space affront the bed, he could still see her unbutton his shirt, one by one by one.

Again the bed recliner found the front door. The lady with the bun shook her head no. Knowing any verbal argument would be futile he simply placed the scarf around her neck with flourish then wound it as valet would his Lord’s cravat. 

Ms. Carney’s glare could have ignited a candle without the need of matches. When she threw her hands up in exasperation he had slipped his woolen gloves on them. She went to remove the hand coverings. He had held her hands tight in his; the pleading in his eyes wore her down. Her head had turned to the side while a sigh as deep as the Long Island Sound escaped her. There had been no further commentary on the subject as they took their leave.

Neal looked over at the clock on the bedside table. Had he really only been asleep for two hours? Despite the skint amount of rest he knew his body would not find slumber again. The White Collar CI gingerly rose from the safety of his prone position on the queen sized bed; he waited till his stomach halted the tuck and roll of summersaults. 

With grim determination of the damned he placed his feet on the rug after his ankle jewelry caught on the flannel sheets. His blue eyes wandered down to the cuff of his sleeping pants stuck just inside the rim of Tupperware for work released felons; he released the tuck with a groan. Once he was certain his leaden legs would hold him without crumpling like a deck of cards in a tsunami wind, the five foot eleven man shuffled like an octogenarian with a double hip replacement over to the kitchen area. Ready to leap from tall buildings, tunnel the catacombs, hang from a high wire or even fold laundry he was not.

His eyes washed past the double bowls of dirt and water sitting in silence atop the wine rack. Wine. The former Bennett’s stomach hopscotched at the very nearness of the grape offerings. Neal brought his hands to his head massaging his temples in an effort to mediate the scrimmage being fought with gusto on the battleground below his sable colored locks. He eyed the bottles with bloodshot eyes. He was not Moz. He could not drink as they had without repercussions.

His painter’s fingers found the raven Smeg coffeemaker without even looking he flipped the switch to on. He smiled a little smile as he heard the water steam into the Peaberry blend with a welcome snap crackle and pop. 

Neal trudged towards the room with the large waterfall, which would restore his dehydrated body and ease the pounding of the thousand and one steeple bells ringing in his head. The pull of the hot water was like a magnet to metal. The tile felt cold beneath his sore bare feet. They had still not recovered from his tango with the metal legs of the balcony chair.

By route he found the faucet and turned the water on full blast to the left before he dropped his needed desperately to go to the dry cleaners work pants to the floor his belt buckle landing just inside a pocket. His formally finely pressed shirt joined the pants now a roadmap of potholes and cracks. Soon the slacked noose that once lay in refinement against his chest found the wheat colored bathmat affront the tub the rumpled tie missed the menswear mountain completely.

Neal sighed as he tried to work his undershirt off with little success. Where were his lightening fast zippty do da reflexes? He smiled when victory was his and the white cotton Hanes crew neck finally found its way to the haphazard mound of clothing growing on the floor. 

Light from the ornate sconce of iron and stained glass bounced off the dulling merlot rings about his wrists. A cascade of bruises littered the landscape surrounding the area where Peter’s very special metal bracelets had sliced and diced into his skin and bone. He closed his eyes momentarily against the brightness of the light while he peaked the summit with his simple soft blue boxers.

The native of DC was about to step into the welcomed cascade of firewater when something flickered just under the crest of the antique tub. With great care not to lose his balance or throw a hitch into his gitty up the dancer sank down on his haunches to improve his vantage point. The object resting just inside the front leg (with the special hiding hole) was a small earing, he palmed it in his right hand, while his left rested upon the ridge of the white cast iron. 

It took the frog a few seconds to leap from his place near the floor. Neal rolled the ear piece over in his hand before placing it with exaggerated care on the little shelf above the sink as brown eyes bounced through his head. An idea was formed and settled all before his aching frame found the water.

Blue eyes found tile as the steam formed an early morning layer of fog over it. It dawned on him as he eased himself over the tub side and under the showerhead why he never spent any great amount of time looking at the hexagon pattern that covered the expanse of the floor.

Neal’s hand found the inside of his thigh the same time his eyes did, he fingered along the fault line, feeling the crater marks left by the weapon of opportunity, a lug wrench heated to the point of becoming a branding iron. The naked man in the shower had not revisited that night in the gas station in a very long time. Yet in the last week the images from the Lavatory of Horrors haunted the house in his mind like a ghost getting paid overtime.

His eyes took in his private space and the scar that diagnaled across the roughened ridges of the terrain. Neal had heard the door behind him open with a bang the wood splintering against the graffiti filled wall. He worked to turn off his personal faucet before the cam chain from a Kawasaki Z1 landed on his member with such force blood instantly sprayed across the cracked urinal in a torrent of red red rain. 

His knees had found the sticky grime filed tile seconds later. He remembered as the second hit found his back with the driving force of an NFL linebacker, it was the first time he ever wanted to offer thanks to his mom. Grateful he was for the fact his she literally malleated into him that the more he showed he felt the pain the more she would increase the duration and fever of the opprobrium. He never once broke from his blank face facade with the man who beat up near to death.

As the masked man in the bathroom kicked him in the chest with his large steel-toed boots, the teenager had found need to also offer gratitude to his uncle for reinforcing the Caffrey Campaigns of Sadism. It better prepared him for surprise attacks from unknown gladiators. 

The glee filled laugh as his back slammed against the trashcan toppling the contents over him in a rain shower of crumbled paper and he didn’t even want to know what shorted the circuit in his brain just as when Cairbre sent him flying towards the tractor the night in the barn. Blood ejected turbulently in intermittent discharges from his personal geyser. Still he lay quiet as a church mouse.

Enraged by the lack of fear and cowering response the abuser had gripped his hair back as if he were preparing to remove his scalp then punched him with the fever of a five year old trying to gut a piñata for treasure. Neal knew well the consequences for real displays of emotion, they would only encourage the towering man to increase the pain, masks were what you wore to keep the world at a palladium distance. 

His body may have reacted without his consent with random synaptic twitches and grunts as nerves were impaled and skin flayed. Still the teenager with the leaking private member never gave his abuser the reaction he so maliciously sought, he simply took the attack in stoic silence. It wasn’t his first beating, not even close. And somehow sadly, he knew it wouldn’t be his last. 

When the gloved hands yanked his pants down to his knees that was it. That was the moment in time when the world paused as if someone had hit the button on a remote. The boot that found the space between legs inched right up to the splayed and wounded extension, yet the man never made a further move towards it. 

The man in the shower laid the entirety of his hand on the healed over skin of his thigh he could still feel the skin smoldering beneath his fingers. His eyes closed at the memory of towering bell tower of a man in his wrangler blue jeans, simple black tee shirt and worn leather jacket and how produced a heavy metal bar with a hook from the back of his thick double wide black as night belt. 

The man in black waved around lug wrench like an evil wizard would a wand then the prestidigitator slammed it down into his shoulder so hard Neal had blacked out. The unmistakable combination of ammonium carbonate and alcohol found his ichor-impacted nose some few minutes later. He could almost hear the sound of the acetylene torch as it as it hissed to life like a cobra ready to strike.

Neal removed his hand from his thigh, ran his fingers one last time over his marred member before he set about the task of washing away the violent memories of the masked man in the urinal on the back roads. No matter how much sandalwood soap he used he didn’t feel clean, no matter how many times he scrubbed at his body he still felt the dirt tracked in from the road out side grinding into his backside, he still felt the blood as it ran in ribbons and waves over him on to the floor below. 

The naked man in the shower save for his governmental jewelry stayed in the shower until it ran cold and still sometime after that. When he finally alighted from the water the near prune dried off with purpose. Neal changed into a pair of jeans, an old boots hidden in the back of his closet one of the only physical reminders of a life past, a dark gray Henley and an unadorned black Brunello Cucinelli western style shirt that he left open against the under layer more so because the buttons required effort to join then any sort of fashion statement. 

He grabbed his dark gray Berluti men’s leather and shearling jacket with its asymmetrical zipper and headed back out to the kitchen area. He drank his first cup of coffee straight down without any embellishments, trying not to gag as the unlaced caffeine mixed with his stomach fluid.

Absently the work-released felon realized that he had not eaten since lunch the previous day. Jones and Diana had been smiling ear to ear when they lay what they knew to be his favorite sandwich a smoked caprese Panini with eggplant and prosciutto on his desk. He forced himself to eat the first half and enough of the second they would know he was appreciative of their thoughtful gesture. With the turning of the Peter tide, the duo of agents found subtle ways to relay just how much they genuinely cared for him and more importantly (to them at least) respected him.

Neal’s fingers grabbed at the to go cups he kept stored under the sink, he was going to need coffee reinforcements for his morning battle ahead. His blue eyes worked past the metal pail that lay snuggled in the recess of the cupboard. He could just see the flinted edges of the matches peaking out.

His knees were shaky as the five foot eleven man swallowed down the bile that threatened to erupt the Blue Mountain Peaberry from his system. Neal was almost robotic as he poured the coffee in the newly rescued travel cup. So he wouldn’t lose the next battle of caffeine v stomach he added a little oat milk and a spritz of brown sugar before mixing it with a fork. He hadn’t even realized it wasn’t a spoon till he laid the utensil in the sink. 

With resolute movements, the man in the rooftop apartment sleeved his winter coat, snapped the top onto the to go mug and turned on shitkicker boot covered dancers feet towards the small shelf that rested above the sink in the hexagon tiled bathroom. Graceful hands swept the earing from its perch and carried it into the safety of the right front pocket of the 3sixteen jeans that hugged at his hips.

December 6, 2013, The Burke Residence, 7:47AM

The work-released felon stood outside the townhome in Clinton Hill a soft wind tickled the hair at his neck like they were keys on a piano. Beacons of sun found the lens of his Mount Blanc sunglasses. The five foot eleven man was grateful for the barrier between the harsh ray of hell and his tender bloodshot eyes. With the patience of a monk at vespers he waited for the clock to tick down to 8am, an early but socially expectable time to knock upon the agents door. Neal knew that El was to return home from her New Jersey soirée and he feverently wished to miss her. 

The empty coffee cup in his hand found the near to overflowing trash can at the corner. Unconsciously his stomach threatened to eject its meager contents as the smell of fetid feces and rancid kielbasa found the air about him. Unsteady hands found his hair as he eased it off his forehead beads of sweat were started to meld the sable locks into his skin. 

Blue eyes found the vintage Zenith watch resting just under the cuff of the bond forger’s winter coat. While not particularly expensive, it was a sentimental piece that made his wrist feel cocooned as opposed to encircled. The timepiece showed 7:59AM. 

His steal toed covered feet progressed the length of the block with purposeful though paced intent. No need to pass out in a heap of bones and clothes before reaching his intended destination. Neal allowed his hand to hover above the entrance door waiting until the 1940’s watch signaled it was 8:00AM. His ungloved knuckles rat a tat tatted upon the glass with determination.

A few moments later unkempt Peter materialized, his sandy brown hair askew, his sleep pants rumbled, his gray shirt twisted at angle that highlighted the fact it had recently been donned with haste. His brown eyes scanned the length of the man standing in front of him; the homeowner wasn’t able to conceal the distress in his voice when he whispered out the visitor’s name, “Neal.” 

The older man ushered the CI in out of the crispness of the morning, not before noting the darkness of the sunglasses and the small tremors that were firing like rockets through his normally unflinchingly steady hands. Peter blinked the away the sleep he had just found not more than an hour previous. Neal (for him) was very subdued in his sartorial choices. The fifty year old took in the plain jeans and simple coat.

The agent’s appraisal dipped lower to the footwear that housed the feet capable of amazing feats. The never ever seen before boots showed catastrophic signs of abuse, they had long since lost any of the polish and sheen their owner was known for. The toe box on the right foot displayed a two inch gash the sliced the leather to grain. The shank of the left was depressed at such a degree it was a wonder the Neal was able to walk straight. Simply put the footwear was old, worn, scuffed and well ugly. 

Peter wanted to interpellate the visitor about the out of character shitkickers, but the fact that his friend was there so close to the rooster call (ok not really but he was working an maybe an hour of sleep) on a Saturday when they didn’t have an active case near to when he thought El to arrive meant it whatever the reason it was serious.

“I think I am going to need coffee for this.” The pajama clad man turned around on his bare feet fixing the packaging on his Fruit of the Loom undershirt as he ambled towards the kitchen expecting the younger man to follow him. The homeowner wasn’t disappointed when he heard the felon remove coffee cups from the second shelf, nor was he disappointed when he saw he pre mix their expected ratios of additives into the mugs. 

Peter poured the much-required caffeine in some few minutes later. They both took long unisoned sips of their beverages; the six foot two man ran a few fingers through his hair, hoping to wrangle the locks into the carrel. Peter walked a fair bit steadier and peppier over to where the little paper clip box was fiddling with it for a moment before sitting down at kitchen table. Neal joined in his regular chair. The white-collar men nursed their mugs in a comfortable silence for a few minutes.

“All right Neal, I am sufficiently caffeinated.” Peter tilted his head and tipped his glass towards the uncharacteristically mute man at the table. Neal remained unmoving and unmotivated to speak. The fifty year old knew the man whose eyes still hid behind the safety of the aviators was cycling through whatever speech he had prepared.

“Neal.” The older man worked to keep his voice kind not wanting to startle the contemplative native of DC. When the call of his name didn’t elicit a reaction, the homeowner reached a hand over to the man in jeans. His touch was gentle as it found the inter phalangeal joint crease of the artists thumb. “Neal,” he repeated with the same care.

The agent watched as the felon slowly removed his glasses placing them on the nicked surface just to the right of his hand. Blue eyes mixed with a cocktail sauce of red raised from where they lay locked on the table. The last time they had been sitting in these positions Peter had shared Grace’s file with the angered young man. Peter placed the coffee cup gripped so tight he saw the skin turn white in his knuckles down on the table. 

“Oh Neal.” The man in his bare feet felt his throat bob a few times as he pressed the emotion threaten to erupt like a no longer dormant volcano down into the depths of his soul. “Please don’t ask me to see it again.” Neal’s eyes closed for the barest of seconds seeing her hanging from that hook like a discarded carcass of meat (in fact what she was) before reopening. 

“No Peter. I am not here about the file.” The older man visibly relaxed back into his seat and took a steading sip of coffee as the man across from him continued without preamble or warning towards his intended goal, “I need you to extend my radius.” Whatever the agent had been expecting his friend to say, it was not about the lengthening of his electronic leash. 

Brown eyes ran over the face across from him there were an intense exhaustion that frayed the edges of the normally smooth marble and the desperate need for something. Whatever that something was remained to be seen. Neal’s face bore none of his trademark conman features; it was simply put awash in anguish. 

The man in the old boots could feel his toes scrunch under the assessing gaze of the man in his pajamas. Neal carded a hand through his hair to calm the raging tornados striking down in stomach. His jacket and shirt pulled up off his wrist enough Peter could see the colors highlighting the area. 

The homeowners stomach threatened to evict the Italian roast so recently settled there in a pool of warmth and welcome. The younger man noticed the heaviness of the quiet that had descended on the table in a blanket of despair and locked eyes with his friend. It was then he realized he could feel the coldness of the table of his wrist. 

The five foot eleven man understood the clouds that obscured the light in Peter’s normally warm brown eyes. His crestfallen face cascaded in waves of grief that beat at the reefs of his soul. “They don’t hurt anymore.” Neal offered the man who had become the most important man in his life hoping to calm the fustigating lightening striking at the other man’s heart. 

Neal could not and would not let Peter continue to turn the abuse inwards upon himself. They were in this together. “Peter.” The older man’s jaw tighten to the point the younger worried the pin might pop at the stress about the hinge. Peter made no move to look at or even otherwise acknowledge him. “Please look at me.” The agent forced his brown eyes to meet the blue ones across from him when he heard the unshed tears in the other man’s voice. 

When Neal was certain he held the fifty year olds attention he pleaded with Peter to understand to know beyond a shadow of any doubt, “I am not mad at you.” The orator paused for a moment allowing the words to sink into the marsh surface of the man across from him. “I do not blame you, this…” the young man took his jacket off and tossed aback his chair, then pushed the edges of the sleeves off his arms, “is just the cost of what we are doing.” 

The older mans eyes locked on the ugly bruising and fading bracelets he brought about to the one man who meant more than any other to him. “Peter.” The man in question heard the break in the visitor’s voice. The young man in the shitkickers was nearing the end of his reserves. Peter knew he had to respond or Neal would continue to beat at himself causing more damage than the agent ever could have rent.

“Neal.” Peter swallowed down the emotions that battering against the trap door. He watched as Neal physically flinched like he had been slapped across the face upon hearing his name. Start as you mean to go on Peter ground a sharped toenail into the pad of the opposite foot. “Its a high cost.” The agent shuttered when he saw the other man shrug as if to say, ‘yeah, so and.’

“What it they leave scars?” The man in his pajama’s voice was rough with the knowledge that he would be the reason behind permanent reminders of violence. Peter’s brown eyes dipped low towards those hideous boots before trailing over the younger mans body, a man who he might never know the age of. He knew deep in his heart some sliver of his friend felt he deserved what came to him. He had failed Peter and there were consequences to be paid for that failing. Peter bit the inside of his cheek. It was he who failed Neal. 

“Then they leave scars Peter.” The man in the blue jeans and black western button up waved his hand over his body as if a lasso at rodeo, “they will have plenty of company.” Neal took a long drink of the cooling coffee savoring the taste of the Italian roast mixed with almond milk and two healthy scoops of raw sugar.

Peters head dropped forward his chin almost resting on his chest would there ever be a time when Neal felt worthy of kindness and of love? The homeowner let out a sigh that magnitude of which would register earthquake status on the Richter scale. His slowly brought his head back up remembering the reason for the early morning drop in, “why do you need your radius extended?”

The work-released felon had expected a flat out no as Peter’s first response on the subject; he thought he would have to start the fight below the dirt. The conman had made no contingency plans for an open to the idea agent. So prickly like a desert cactus was the lawman about certain things. 

The sable haired man made a conscious effort to be open and honest in his answers. Neal set the red with white polka dot’s mug down on the wooden table momentarily flashing to Ms. Carney’s tea cup sliding towards him, he reached a hand into his pocket and in the most unguarded delivery offered, “I need to return something to a friend.” 

Peter’s eyes watched the heaviness of the movements with a measured look. If it were Moz all Neal needed to do was summon him, the balding man would find his Mon frère, (brother) Sara had returned to her post overseas. He had no idea where Alex was but she had not popped on any watch lists. 

Who did that leave? The barefoot man supposed he should be surprised when the answer presented itself in the form of a little sunflower. His brown eyes widened a bit when he saw Grace’s earing. The older man drummed his fingers on the table for a second and watched a small smile and a wee bit of happiness appear on the face across from him while he processed his response. 

The agent stood up and snagged his official phone off the side table (the previous temporary home of the file) where he placed it before the duo had headed into the kitchen for much needed coffee. Peter checked the time before he headed up the stairs with a Jack in the Box spring in his step leaving the younger man alone at the table to contemplate just what Peter intended. 

When George had helped him off the ground and into his Jeep Neal hadn’t know what to expect. His only experience thus far with authority figures or adults who should be trusted in their roles to lead and care for were so filled with violence and vengeance that he spent the whole ride mentally preparing his physical body to run when the vehicle stopped.

Only that isn’t what happened. What happened was they hit a patch black ice while attempting to not impale Bambi on the curved mountain road littered with trees that lead to the Rangers cabin. The older man’s first instinct was to reach his hand out in an effort to protect the boy from sliding off the seat into the dashboard. Neal remembered how unconscious his reaction was, he saw a raised hand out of the corner of his eye and he flinched waiting for the fist to fall.

It was a quiet night in the fall just as the leaves left the warm embrace of the trees when George sat him down. Neal had known something had changed when he saw the leather-traveling bag at the foot of the neatly made bed. He watched as the ranger brewed them their favorite midnight cup of coffee before he moved the satchel over and sunk his towering trunk down into the feather mattress bringing his left foot up to the stool the heel of his boot resting along the roughened edge. 

With the cup balanced on his knee George motioned for Neal to join him. The young man always in his old worn boots found what he had come to think of as his chair an old leather recliner that in its heyday might been a chocolate brown. He had eased himself down on the padded seat and waited patiently for whatever thoughts the older man needed to impart.

The man with the grass green eyes smiled his snaggletooth glinting under the lantern light. The time had come for him to be with his love, the person who brought light to his dark world. Much latter in a different time and space Neal would get a chance to meet that person, to tell him of all the beautiful gifts the man with the grass green eyes had given him. 

He wasn’t lying when he told George’s lover Mateo that the man they loved so much there just weren’t words had saved his life. There was no doubt in his mind he would have died that night sitting alone in the old beat up rusted truck with a near collapsed lung, what they would come to find out was a dislocated hip, multiple contusions and severe blood loss surrounded by the angry winter storm.

George had provided him a great many sage words that night under the flicking light. Among them “Neal. I won’t be the only man in your life.” Neal laughed in the Burke coffee mug snugged in his hand as he remembered how serious George had been in his delivery. It wasn’t until he focused his attention on the older man’s face that the young man knew him to be using the phrase as an icebreaker.

“One day when you have gained some years and hopefully so more wisdom,” they had both chuckled at that. George often told him he had a gloriously smart mind and one day when the seeds planted in his garden grew he hoped that the wisdom would spread like wild flower. “There will be a man you can call friend, that you can finally trust, with all of you.” 

Neal swallowed the last sip of the Italian roast. The teenager hadn’t understood the gravitas of what the well-lived man had been trying to explain to him that night. For all the life he had lived up to that point, he just hadn’t been lived enough to process all that simple statement meant. To the orphaned in a sense young man the fact that he trusted the lawman not to hurt him seemed to fit the bill. 

The man who had lived enough life to know the difference sitting in the chair in at 106 Cambridge Place heard the creak of the floor boards above him a few seconds later. George would have like Peter his blend of love and strong set of ethics and morals. And Peter would have liked George his quiet unassuming way of seeing to the needs of others, his unparalleled sense of right and wrong. 

Bare feet found the stairs the wood gave a low moan as the lawman made his way off the last one the visitor took in the different phone clasped in Peter’s hand. This one looked worse for wear with cracked sides. Neal watched the thumb movements the older man still in his pajamas made before a small cat that ate the canary grin appeared on the homeowners face. 

Peter then picked up his work phone; hit number 3 on his speed dial. The work released felon listened as the agent relayed an address to the United States Marshal Service. The FBI man provided assurance and endorsement as he asked to add an address to list of places safe for Neal’s to travel to outside his radius. While his heart processed the fact that Peter permanently placed the lady near always in black on the list of places he could go, his mind stored the address in his memory rolodex.

The upstate native smiled his first real smile at the Missouri matriculant all week, “I’d ask if you wanted breakfast to go with the coffee.” Peter laughed before continuing, “I gather the cooking at your next destination is far preferable to mine.” 

Neal fought the chuckle that bubbled forth with a rumble and tumble, just like he fought the smile that threatened his lips, really he did. “Thank you Peter.” The Irish man in the shitkickers and his regained winter coat found his friends face, locking eyes with him trying to explain all that was in his heart, “thank you for trusting me.”

The homeowner felt his cheeks flush with an emotion he had no idea how to name. “Go.” He nodded towards the door his wayward sandy brown locks slid over his forehead. “Enjoy your day.” Peter moved to take the empty cup from the tightened vice grip of the man he prayed would have a peace filled day. 

Blue eyes held conference with brown. The younger man willed the older man to know that he understood the magnitude of the gift just provided him. It wasn’t that he allowed him to see the woman whose earing rested along the seam of his pocket; it was the simple without need for verification trust. 

The fifty year old felt his ears join in the oh so red Rudolph contest, “go.” He again urged Neal to take his exit. 

The lawman watched the former Bennett from the safety of the living room window as Neal walked almost at a run towards the subway station that would take him part of the way to his island destination. 

Peter ran a hand over his face before he turned towards the stairs that would lead him to a shower. He had his own meeting with a lady to prepare for. Just as he reached the landing his phone beeped announcing the imminent arrival of his beautiful wife. 

December 6, 2013, Grace Carney’s Loft, 9:04AM

The knock at the sliding metal door was soft, much fainter than the woman in her favorite soft jeans with the frayed hems expected of the man with the kind hands and gentle soul. Grace took a deep centering breath before sliding the barrier open. The man who she shared various scars and states of undress with would be the first person to come here not out of obligation. 

Neal felt more than heard the scream of agony the riveted door provided as it opened to allow him entrance. The white collar CI noted how the sound bore a striking resemblance to the one provided by the elevator that traveled to the subterranean office at the Federal Building.

“Good Morning.” The lady in an old worn yellow three quarter sleeve baby doll shirt a white tank top that peaked out from underneath the small ruffles about the bottom bid the man in his leather and wool jacket entry as she stepped back into the warmth of the loft. 

“Breakfast is on the stove,” the chef re-laid as her eyes danced across the face of her newly arrived visitor. With a welcoming smile and a playful tug on his coat hem, Grace shared with the man in what had to be the ugliest state of boot affairs she had chance to see, “please feel free to hang your winter wear.”

The Irish woman then spun on bare feet towards the kitchen not wanting the pan to overheat and thus ruining the morning meal. The former Bennett unzipped the winter wear while he took in the sway of the lady of the lofts hips in her well loved jeans if the small rips and tears about the distressed denim were any indication and the way her braids bounced a long in tune.

Heeding the offer of the woman in the apron adorned with sunflowers of crimson and gold, the newly arrived man in 3sixteen jeans hung his coat on the one of the metal hooks that had been drilled into a cedar plank mounted on the small entrance wall next to the door. Neal then rolled the train car like door back to close with a cacophony of subway along the rails sounds clawing at his ears finally locking it with a click boom. 

The man in the simple no frills black Brunello Cucinelli western style shirt noted that his scarf hung on the first hook next to her favorite winter coat and a black (of course) sweater he had not chance to view previous. Neal couldn’t contain the silly little grin that found his face when he touched the angora neckwear.

On the last hook was her old worn leather messenger bag with its muted yellow stitching and a small black (because what other color would it be?) cross body purse. What did she store in them he wondered? Lady business things like a compact and well lady business stuff? Or a lock pick set and a pocketknife? Pictures of people from her past, or present?

The thief’s well practiced hand found its way to the bottom of the raven messenger bag fingering along the lumps he could just make out the lines of her wallet and a small zippered box. Blue eyes traveled the truncated distance back to his borrowed scarf. He shouldn’t do this, the woman humming softly in the kitchen had gone out of her way to treat him with unvarnished dignity and unfettered respect, and there were just some lines you shouldn’t cross. His shitkickers made quick work to the food preparation location.

Coffee met the wayward visitor at the butcher-block counter. Absently Neal wondered just how many cups of java might be too much caffeine for his heart, before ultimately sipping the steaming liquid out of a nitid yellow mug. The felon rolled the cuffs on his black over shirt and Henley up. Then asked to help assist in preparing and or cooking whatever smelled like angels sprinkled fairy dust in the deep frying pan. 

Grace’s throaty laughter rang off the walls. As she shook her chestnut head no, her right braid slipped over her shoulder like an acrobat to a trapeze. With a this happens all the time giggle the lady in yellow nudged the vine aback with her chin. 

Neal persisted almost as if to plea at being her sous, “please, I would like to help.”

“I do appreciate your offer of assistance.” Something in her smile indicated that his help was about to be declined, “It is very most kind of you.” 

Her brown eyes twinkled with merriment as she looked over the gentleman standing before her. Neal held out his hand in hopes the cook would allow him to use her knife to start chopping the remaining additives for the culinary delight. Or maybe the almost derited brown spatula to move things already hopping and popping around the cast iron pan.

The visitor watched in amazement as the five foot five lady with the bare feet twirled the knife in the air before catching it and repeating the process. She winked at him as she questioned, “Would you let me paint on your canvas?” Neal felt a clonus deep in the valley of his jeans at the memory of her hands painting across his undraped skin. He could feel heat rising on his face that had nothing to do with the meal cooking on the stove. 

The confidence man smiled a well-practiced blank smile to mask the hurt ping ponging across the walls of his heart. Neal sank down on the stool at the island in submission, as if a sack of onions finally found comfort at the bottom of the bin. He worked to make his delivery light and joking, “point made.” 

Brown eyes washed over the man leaning on his elbows she took in the uncovered angry welts about his wrists, the rainbow colored bruising that must smart something fierce. For one morning she just wanted to be a woman cooking for a man, she could see the dispiritedness in the plains of his face. He just wanted to be the man helping the woman in kitchen. 

What was it Mr. Hawthorne had written? No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to himself and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which many be the true. 

While each of the players in the play had to play their parts, it was the man with alabaster skin and downcast eyes that bore the brunt of the acting. He needed a tether, a tangible to connection to the world, something normal, even if it was just preparing a meal with a barefoot woman in the kitchen. 

With purposeful flourish and showwomanship Grace flipped the knife high in the air catching it with an ease born out of years and years of practice (all while maintaining eye contact with him) then presented the utensil to him handle first with a curtsy and a “your blade sir.”

To ruin the effect her errant right braid swishing over her shoulder like a swashbuckler to his sail. This time the smile that found the edges of his lips was true and infectious, the cook found herself grinning as she asked, “how about you show your skill with a knife and make quick work of the peppers and the onions?” 

His skill with a knife? His repertoire was filled with talents some upstanding, many underhanded, always useful, even if mundane and oft obscure. Still if he tried doing what she just did with a blade and without even looking at the sharpened metal while he tossed and caught it, he would accidentally slice a jugular vein or send the knife flying like the man on the trapeze without the greatest of ease… Not for the first time to he think there was a fair bit about the alluring Ms. Carney he didn’t know.

As the slicer and dicer was working his way through the veggies at his right he found himself sniffing at the air like a dog in the park. The scents of the spices and sauces the chef added to the meat were intoxicating, the more the pan cackled and popped the deeper the smell permeated the air like food at the fair, “that is…” the visiting sous chef inhaled deep, “resplendent.” 

The smile that illuminated the woman in the flower covered apron with oversized pockets face made the commenter reach for the yellow mug to take another sip, unabashed awe tinged with excitement gave way to uncertainty. His hands tightened on the ceramic. 

Kate never engaged in domestic tasks, the idea of idle to her was the kiss of poison. She never noticed how much he craved early Saturday morning coffee or late Thursday night snuggling or just honey don’t forget the milk. With a considerable contemplation and sadness, he had come to terms with the fact that the lady with the blue didn’t love him; she just appreciated what he could bring to her. 

All he ever would be to anyone was a useful tool. His mom used him as a prop in her schemes, then as he aged her own personal shopper without the paying portion. His uncle used him as the decoy and then as the errand boy for he breaking and entering. 

Mozzie saw him as a way to expound on his wild and crazy schemes. A person with whom he could mold like clay to fit into the missing pieces of his life. Elizabeth found him a food tester and someone to speak with about art when she needed to bolster her business and repartee. Sara saw him as the bad boy art thief who could engage her mind and her sex drive. Who could make her feel like she was skating along the wrong side of the law all while trying to bend him to her will.

And then there was Peter. To the FBI agent he was a way to increase the White Collar closer rate. He was someone with whom the lawman could bounce ideas off because he appreciated how fast his CI’s brain worked, despite the fact as Peter reminded him every chance he could with no small amount of cruelness that he would ALWAYS be a criminal. He would always be a felon and the person ultimately responsible for making the agent question his credendum in his much loved system. 

Even June saw him as a tether to a life past, a person with which to discuss the good old times, to create scenarios with, even see out a few just so she could relieve the thrill even if for a few moments in time. If Neal looked closely he could see how the woman who welcomed him into her home in some ways looked upon him as a surrogate son. 

His mind flashed on the memories of the lady next to him joking in the elevator as it crash-landed with a nut-jarring thud. The way she feed him without words. He could see the glow of her hair as she bowed affront him to remove his armor. How she cleansed his blood-soaked wounds; binding them with gentle firmness. His heart increased in speed as he saw the image on her kneeling with him on the balcony in vernation with the bowls. 

His pants tightened about his apex as his view master showed the way his pants pool around her feet, how he could see the little scalloped edging along her undergarments. The nakedness of her back and the more than silhouette of her enbowments. The strain against the jeans pulled tighter… He could see her hand balanced along the precipice of his sleepwear. 

He wondered in that moment, how did the knife juggler see him? 

Neal shook his sable color head to clear the wayward thoughts as he aphonicaly questioned the cook if he should add the recently minced garden pieces to the pan affront her? She nodded in the positive while she stepped the barest of hints to the side so that he might complete the action.

Her warm brown eyes were filled to the brim with understanding when she found his. Without ever saying one word, the lady with the scared wrists and tattooed back told him she knew what it meant to play a part in service of the cause (whatever that may be,) to perform because is what was required of you. 

Her head tilted as her eyes softened against the glass that found his ocean of blue. “You matter.” Her heart told his. Grace watched his throat bob and for one quick second she thought she might have said the words aloud. Then they both stepped back, the man towards the island and the lady to the stove.

His blue eyes scrutatored the back of her neck as she fluffed and folded his additions into their repast. The longer his eyes held the nape of her neck the more his lens focused there was a diminutive embedment just atop of the first thoracic vertebrae. How her spine escaped permanent damage from the night with the meat hook?

The man in boots from another life and another time searched for another task to assist in. Seeing that her visitor needed to keep occupied the lady in the thrift store jeans suggested with the aid of an old wooden spatula “maybe you can grab the dishes” she point to the cupboard door “and set the outside table” her head nodded towards the French doors near the rear of the room, the meddlesome right braid again bounced over her shoulder. 

Only seeing the swift swish of the spatula, Neal momentarily flashbacked back to when his mom slapped him across the face with large olive wood utensil. He could still feel the sting of the hit and the burning of the hot oil as it ran down his cheek like rain to a windowsill. He sat up all night that night with an ice pack on his face sending wishes to the moon out the window. 

Grace watched the man in his old worn footwear and his simple coverings travel another place in his mind. Wherever it was he went had been filled with opporobium and a resolved sadness. Her eyes moved from her sometimes coworker to her shelf along the wall. She knew what it meant to just exist in a life you had no control over. 

Her gaze refocused on the man in her kitchen, the way his back was straighter than the board she used to make her sewing table, yet his shoulders rounded in, the way his hands gripped the cupboard door and his eyes stared at the plates without seeing them, the way his blue eyes swung like a missile locked on target towards her brown. 

All the years of pain, of abuse, of feeling like unwanted trash stared backed at her. Continuing on the morning’s theme of talking with out words the lady in the loft let all him see just how very much she understood. Neal raised a tentative hand to her face and held her flushing cheek before turning on his old broken-down heels towards the outside. “Thank you…” Grace found she didn’t know how to continue. After that night in his apartment and this morning in the kitchen he could not longer just be Mr. Caffrey.

The man in the rolled cuffs with his handcuff related bruises and cravings visible headed towards the deck. Neal felt a small pang in his heart pop like a balloon deflating. The lady in braids had censored him. Her words trailed off as her focus found the cast iron pan. The chef was going to say something else instead she halted before bringing further words to voice. The table setter gripped the plates against the sadness that sprung up like an unwanted garden weed. 

As he headed down the path to the outside (i.e. the main living space) Neal swung his pendulum from side to side with honed in on the hidden prize interest, the praxis of taking in a space was so long engrained in him that the thief wasn’t even aware that he was cogitating as he went along. Sussing out and reconing a space was as much a part of him as his often talked about cheekbones. 

The work-released felon descried a reclaimed wood-shelving unit along the large wall that housed the entrance to the balcony. The handmade pieced was crafted with love and precision, the joints were crosslaped in a common woodworking practice where two pieces are joined by removing material from each point of intersection so that they snugged over each other in a treene tango. 

Blue eyes bounced over the curious assortment of debris that littered the shelves like flotsam from the cracked haul of a ship. As outré as the pieces might appear to an outsider observer Neal knew had no doubt they all held specific meaning and sentiment. 

The more he absorbed the collection of knick-knacks along the planks the more evidence he garnered about the history of lady in yellow humming Pecker Dunne’s A Tinkers Lullaby. A smile found the Travelers face as he unconsciously mouthed the words in duet. If he had any doubts about what the pieces of her puzzle suggested the song choice rasured them all. 

Along one of the inside walls another handcrafted wood piece. A six-foot worktable with a self-healing cutting mat that covered the entirety of the surface like a box lid. Underneath the table an open cart with a sewing machine and serger laid snuggled together like threaded lovers. That Ms. Carney had a designated sewing area didn’t surprise him one bit. The discourse of quilting that occurred between her and Sara was as in-depth as it was long. Clearly both women enjoyed the fabric arts.

Continuing on with his appraisal of the loft the visitor moved his gaze onto to the next item for his assessment. The occupant of the wall cornering the sewing area called to him like a Selkie to a sailor. An antique carriage trunk, circa the 1800’s. The treasure chest was aged patina with a dome top, dressed with wood staves and decorative embossed panels overlaid with Celtic knot detail. The hand-stitched thick leather carry handles were in pristine condition; with what he was certain was the original cast metal hardware. And if he knew his carriage trunks which he did hidden casters about the bottom to make moving it easier. 

More than any of the cultch and orts that lined the wood aback him, Neal knew the portmanteau would provide a portal to the here to unknown parts of woman putting the finishing touches on their forthcoming meal. His blue eyes stayed on it for a second longer than polite contemplating what recondite information lay in the vintage most likely inherited travel case.

The shitkickers finally found their way back to the yellow brick road that led to the Emerald City or in this case the yellow throw rug lead to the covered deck streaming with foliage. The breakfast guest placed the sunflower covered plates down with nary a sound. Then he quick like a gazelle on the plain headed back in to secure cutlery, napkins and other sundry pieces for their repast. 

As the lady who had her loft and items assessed watched her guest reenter the main space she extended an invitation, “feel free to look around” a smile teased at her chapped lips as she continued “no need to be on the down low, I give you permission to search at will.” 

Neal felt his cheeks redden. He had the grace to look chagrined at being caught in the act of investigating. He headed back to the kitchen with all possible haste. His face cooled as he saw the lady in yellow wasn’t in the least bit upset at his scrutinous perusal of her living quarters. He could see it in the way her brown eyes twinkled like the Christmas lights outside on the railing.

“Utensils?” The table setter questioned the lady in braids trying to sidestep acknowledgement of his underhanded grid search of her living room. Her chuckle let him know she was wise to his shenanigans. The lady in the apron nodded to a large yellow handled drawer next to the sink her feisty right braid swung back over her shoulder she grimaced at it but let it be. 

Neal pushed his errant curl out of his eyes as he grabbed the forks and knives taking in the fact that she only had two of each. This is not a woman who entertained guests. The man in the black western shirt processed the fact he was special enough to by pass that full stop thinking. 

His eyes found the knife at rest on the cutting board. The pugilist held no doubts little Ms. Carney could handle herself. His gaze again found her body, there was no tension in her back, she was rolling her foot as if there were a ball underneath, her legs and shoulders were relaxed, she felt safe in his presence. 

Given his cruel almost threatening treatment of her in the basement, how he shunned her on their travel to the Burkes and his raving words to her while sitting at the table with Peter, Neal couldn’t contain the wave of happiness that washed over his soul at such a magnanimous if undeserved (in his eyes) compliment.

Now that he had the lady of the lofts verbal permission to snoop like a burglar assessing his prey, the white collar CI set a sedate and leisurely pace for his return trip towards the French doors. He made a point to look for little details he missed on the first go around. There was a little table (made of reclaimed wood, this time it look to be of old flooring pieces) next to the trunk that housed an old record player, her collection in an old wooden apple crate tucked underneath. 

Neal rubbed at his left wrist; the nerves were jumping like popcorn on a skillet. The examiner took in the bookshelves that lay on either side of the shelving unit. The veracious reader noted a variety of titles both in English and Gaelic, most were familiar to him, and a small percentage was not. Neal was about to move on when he noticed that a few of the tomes were in Latin, he looked over his shoulder watching as the chef as she stood stirring some magic potion into her cauldron. The lady in the kitchen was an enigma. 

His shitkickers made offered no auditory evidence of movement as they shuffled over to view what would be the first of many historical artifacts in the history of Grainne he didn’t know her middle name Carney. The top shelf of the hand made shelving unit housed an old metal Ferris wheel partnered with a derited, losing it paint slightly tarnished big top circus tent. 

Continuing onto the geographical center of the shelf a hand whittled covered wagon with actual strawed bushels of hay leaning against the rear wheel. The last piece along the high shelf was a barn fashioned out of mismatched sticks and twine, the body painted red and the doors a steely gray. Neal turned on his heal with an audible sigh (so loud the lady looked up from her stirring) at the reminder of the wooden nuraghe nested in Lake Annette, Missouri splayed with blood and other bodily by products. Some memories were best left in the past.

Moving away from the shelving unit, the loft surveyor again found his attention entranced by the trunk. How the five foot eleven man longed to know what lay inside. Neal did some quick math in his head. The chest of treasures could hold any number of knives, books or even a robust skeleton of the bone (not figurative) variety. The thief noted the lack of lock on her vintage information portal before forcing his surveillance to the alternate destination of the outside. 

The inquisitors booted feet swerved out into a welcomed gust of cold air; he needed to fight the sirens call of her beautiful scroll covered trunk. He longed to know more about the woman who shared with him the gifts of unconditional kindness, generosity of soul and unmitigated gentleness. He breathed in the smell of the sea just off in the distance allowing the salted air to calm the electric humming in his veins before returning into the loft once more.

When the morning meal visitor found the chef the stove was off and the last of the contents of the pan were being transfer into a large saffron-serving bowl. Grace handed him one while she palmed the other one already filled with fresh cut fruit. The smell emanating from the stoneware nestled in his grip made him salivate like a dog in the summer longed for water. 

Before exiting the diminutive kitchen space the woman in yellow also secured a navy blue coffee carafe with sunflowers painted along the base (definitely her choice flower) and their respective mugs. Grace then nodded towards a covered tray filled with the flaked buttery goodness of croissants fresh out of the oven. This kitchen was filled with food porn at its best.

The duo placed the items down on the handmade table and snuggled into their seats with a comfortable silence. Ever the gentleman Neal spooned the contents of the serving bowls onto their plates. When the man with the exposed wrists finished with his task the lady in braids topped off their coffee mugs. 

The gambler eyed the caffeine then his hands he felt the erratic beat of his heart. Just how much coffee was too much coffee? The intoxicating spices the witch stirred in the brew found his nose with a wiggle and tickle. The java lover decided to live dangerously and took a welcomed sip off the top sighing with contentment as the liquid pulsed through his veins. 

Once they were settled at the table Grace rushed out “I don’t know what to call you” without any preamble or warning to her booted tablemate. Neal tilted his head as to ask for elucidation on the appellative related statement. Her brown eyes beseeched him to provide her an answer “I find I don’t know how to address you anymore.” The lady in yellow took a bolstering sip of coffee before continuing on undeterred in her quest “Mr. Caffrey seems a bit formal outside of work now.” 

There was no actors mask on his face and the smile that found his lips was genuine as he processed her words. He reached a hand towards her in understanding. They had shattered the protective bricks in the wall, stripped away emotional and sartorial barriers. At this juncture in their road the use of Mr. did in seem more than a bit formal.

The former Bennett listened with rapt attention as the lady who helped him strip those remove those bricks and strip those barriers (even if she wouldn’t see it as so) away continued on with her name discourse, “Neal seems foreign.” His ears startled upon hearing it cross her lips for the first time. He would never be Neal to her. Neal was who he was to them.

“Niall seems like something you might not want to hear.” For years and years he would have readily agreed with her observation. So long had the name on his birth certificate been spit out like rancid food or ground out in shame. He smiled to himself, when she said Niall it sounds like lyrics to a well-known song. 

The man at the table regarded the lady in the apron and sweater left braid had found itself lonely in the battle for swinging. It made it way’s over her shoulder and rested haphazardly over the top of her décolletage. The resolute and swerving look about her freckled features stated all her words could not.

Above all she respected him. She had a keen understanding to the dilemma. Names held power. You could wield the puissance like a sword slicing into a person’s heart scathing their soul. You could toss the appellation out like garbage to the curb or douse one out as if adding gasoline to an already fueled fire. 

The man sitting in the reclaimed chair with the circus tent fabric covered pillows stared back at the woman with the kind face and keen eyes. Neal had no clear answer to provide her regarding his moniker so he met her with, “I wondered the same thing.” 

The twinkle that found her brown eyes made him smile. “What I should call you?” Grace challenged him knowing that what he really meant was he had no idea how to address her now. Now that she had shared of herself with him. Heat spread across her expanse like sun in summer to wildflowers in the desert when he had inspected her canvas. His touch felt like a branding iron when his hands found the nakedness of her skin. 

The artist extraordinaire was drawn to her scars like a needle to thread. It was the railroads tracks that littered the landscape across her breasts (not that fullness of muscle and tissue) that pulled his attention like a moth to a flame. While he worked to keep his gaze underscored when studying them, he was not as successful as he would like to think. 

She wondered if one of the scars about his person she had yet to view matched the chain indents in her enbowments. There was no other discernable reason that she could think of that would explain the level he had in the heavy handed carvings about her private marbled mountains.

It took the hostess a moment to realize she had zoned out watching the artist and his branding iron like hands. Her body reacted to the memory of his touch. She felt fire flame across her décolletage. With a small tightening of her feet against the sides of the chair Grace forced her gaze back towards his face, the talented hands was talking. She really aught to be paying attention. 

“What I should call you.” The way he said the statement, the lady in her favorite soft jeans it must have meant it was a repeat. Neal found he couldn’t contain the almost playful smile and low throat chuckle as he took in the way the woman across from him blushed like all the colors at the makeup counter. 

He continued on amusement at her out of the normness prevalent in his voice, “Ms. Carney works for the FBI building.” 

Yes if the work released felon broke from calling her Ms. Carney people would make note of the change and the last thing they needed at this stage in the play was to be noticed. Ms. Carney seemed the height of overly formal and out of place for their personal slightly clandestine meetings.

“Grace is what they call you.” They. The woman with the Arabic wrist tattoo rolled that over in her head and heart. They as in Peter and Reece. Her heart hurt for the man still twirling the fork like a baton at parade. She knew their relationship to be damaged. She also knew there to be so much love. Still they were men folk and men had there own way of retrofitting bridges damaged by fire.

“You might not want to hear Grainne.” Her brown eyes darkened as if an enemy had stormed the gates. It had been a long time since anyone had called her Grainne. A very very long time. Memories of the last night spent at camp whirled through her head like disfigured images at the funhouse mirrors. 

“Tá tú bruscar Grainne.” (You are trash Grace.) Anger enraged spittle ran down her fathers chin as he held hers in a vice lock. She could still see her blood as it ran over his lacerated fingers like a crimson waterfall. “Tóg tú féin amach.” (Take yourself out.) 

The crunch and munch her hip gave as it exploded on impact with the metal stake startled him quiet. He had picked her up by her neck and dragged her like a ragdoll across the entrance line and dropped her like the broken bag of bones she was without a backwards glance. Yes it had been a very very long time since anyone called her Grainne and meant it.

Her eyes washed over the absolute and undeterred unction in his face. The man with his own family demons was seeped in exhaustion if his bloodshot eyes and turtle like reflex’s had anything to say about it. This was ALL much to heavy for a Saturday breakfast. They needed some peace, some laughter a break from the forthcoming category five hurricane about to tear their worlds apart. 

“Cerberus, ” she offered with a smile. Her unexpected response caught him off guard till he flashed back to their first day in the morgue. The lady in braids was not disappointed when the man who had just been about to sip at the spiced brew laughed so hard he had to settle the mug back against the wooden table. 

Her voice ameliorated a slight bit so that the man in the rolled sleeves would know she was amenable with whatever option of moniker he landed on, “you have leave to call me whatever feels comfortable to you.” Grace made sure to hold his gaze only dropping her attention to her coffee when he nodded his understanding of the gift he had been provided. Names had weight looked off towards the sky with a heavy heart. Some were heavier than others.

Neal thought about what felt comfortable for an extended duration. Well really four bites of the grilled pork with red and yellow peppers, mixed with green and sweet onions, fluffed with basmati rice, infused with soy sauce and fig balsamic about his response. 

“You may address me how you see fit.” The man about the table was so ruminative in offering his extension of what he considered to be an equally sincere offering that he missed the maniacal twinkle that flashed across the five foot five woman’s brown eyes.

“Really?” Her voice was deep almost seductive in its delivery. “Nothing is off limits?” She questioned raising the stakes along with her unvarnished hands as if setting the bar towards infinity. Neal didn’t know how comfortable he was with the timbre in her voice or the laughter rumbling forth from the lady in yellow like thunder in the valley. 

His suddenly unsteady hands worked to find the banana colored mug, swallowing a welcomed sip of the coffee before responding with, “the sky’s the limit.” When her eyebrows rose supernal towards the sky he just offered Neal saw the merriment dance across her like a marionette, the twinkling stars in her laughter filled eyes. In retrospect, the sky might have been to Brobdingnagian a sovereignty.

“Get out of the garden!” Grace chuckled as she played with her edges of her left braid before slipping aback the handmade deck chair. “The sky’s the limit?” Neal couldn’t help the smile that found his face when he heard the old world phrase he heard all the time growing up.

The sable haired man rapidly depreciated his limit to a land option “ok, maybe a mountain.” Neal with his lightening fast mind and MENSA level of intelligence really should have known right then and there how the barefoot lady intended to address him. Grace made no moves to hide the conclusion on what to call her visitor. 

His sculptures hands pointed upwards towards the morning sun, “I get the feeling that maybe the sky might have been a little to much leeway.” 

As Neal lowered his arms back towards the table where they had been resting in between bites the lady in yellow was able to see the deep bruising from Peter’s rough handling and the attenuating valleys still in various stages of healing. Grace felt her heart rate increase erratically almost as if the in between moments were caught in a rockslide. She found her wrists and the permanent reminders of the night spent with the Sadistic Butcher of Brooklyn. 

The barefoot woman offered intercession to Saint Brigid. That the Patron Saint of Travellers would show the man across from her grace and allow the remnants of the metal scrimmage to fade without adding to his roster of cicatrix. Such an immutable reminder of the battle would continue to deride his soul and that of the agent who brought the markings about. 

“I imagine the bruises smart a fair bit.” The almost omniscient understanding in her face was his undoing. The man with the bruises could feel his body humming as if a live wire set to strike with a pool of water. 

The felon nodded his hair bouncing as the winter winds rustled past the table with unrestrained gusto, “that they do.” Neal rubbed at the bruises with the determination of a baker to dough, random nerves kept firing off shots in sporadic intervals. Maybe if he could massage at the ugly reminders of failing Peter long enough they would cease to exist. 

Neal found the previously rescinded sky as he expounded on his answer, “and they still sting haphazardly since I uh…” his words momentarily ran off as he took in her arched (that he just realized bore a scar though it) eyebrow. She waved her hands like a magician over his open-faced top hat urging him to continue.

“…Ripped the bandages off last night…” The injured party rushed through the explanation like a stream to the river.

Grace rolled her lower lip in while she contemplated what brought about the angry removal of the padding? She bit her lip before untucking it. The answer to her unvoiced question was all over his face. In fact it was akin to a flashing billboard in Time Square, his credendum that he belonged in fetters and chains. He didn’t deserve the comfort of a barrier between skin and pain. 

The lady of the loft was chary in her approach to the injured knight. “A girl puts in all the hard work!” Blue eyes drifted down from their sky gazing to the lady still in her garden filled apron’s face flushed with reproach. 

“She cleans, she disinfects, and she varnishes.” (Dramatic pause.) His eyes widened as she continued upon her giving him a sound what for. “She pads and she wraps.” (Longer dramatic pause.) “Vigilant in her quest not to snag skin or pull any little hairs along the way!” She raised the other chestnut eyebrow, “and what does she get?” 

The man receiving the dressing down tightened his hand into his knee as she repeated his earlier words; “I ripped them off last night!” Her head shook, her braids bounced around like fireflies. 

When he finally looked his nursemaid in the face it dawned on him what she was trying to do. She meant him to be at peace not in pieces. Neal rested his palms face down on the table enjoying the cold of the wood as it seeped into skin sending chills down the river ways of his veins. 

He opened his mouth to respond his personal Florence Nightingale. Her hands found the air halting him from his intended path. Her smile was as gentle as the fingers that wrapped themselves around his wrists. His body calefaciented to her touch like fuel to a fire. Grace rubbed at the bruises with care. The five foot eleven man in the 3sixteen jeans found he missed the feel of her skin on his when she removed her hands to her lap. 

To give his digits something to do other than reach towards the lady like salvation to a sinner the former Bennett found his mug and massaged at the sides before ultimately uniting the rim with his lips for a sip. The lady sitting cross-legged in the chair stretched her back like a braided Gumby before continuing, “It is ok Sléibhe (mountain) I understand.” 

The spiced coffee had just eased into the passageway of his throat; Neal forced it down with a strangled cough. The woman in yellow sipped at her brew with such a practiced ease that her Cheshire cat grin almost (almost) eluded the seasoned confidence man. The wink she tossed him like dart to a board however, he caught with ease. 

“I ndáiríre??” (Seriously??) Was the only reply the man could squeak out after he regained sufficient air in his lungs. Neal felt his jaw loosen its hinges like the cargo bay opening on a plane. He could feel the tips of his ears redden as if Rudolph’s nose traded places with them and his art forger hands gripped at the silverware a bit to tight. 

Suddenly he felt as the touch of her skin refound his. Her fingers ran along his easing them from the fork and the knife. Seeing the downcast sky upon his crestfallen landscape her levity abated. With kindness that was almost his undoing Grace asked the injured man, “would you like me to tend to them after the meal?” She wanted him to know above all else that he was not alone. 

The lady of the loft’s hands gently made the climb from Neal’s digits to his wrists. She rubbed her thumbs along crimson bracelets hoping to ease the pain in his heart, to warm the hidden parts of him that were cold from unuse. The pulse under her fingers jumped as if it were trying to become a champion hopscotch player. She continued her ministrations. From experience the tortured woman knew that physical wounds in time heal over, the inside scars like beacons in the night remain.

Neal acknowledged all the lady in the braids said without using his vast and varied lexicon. She saw the lacerations about his person and not just the ones as a result of his latest tango with federal handcuffs. The ones that came as a result of the words Peter hurled at him with fists of unrelenting fury that cut so deep in his soul that they might never bind. 

Neal had allowed himself to not only like the agent and enjoy his company he forged on bond with him (not that kind he was sentenced to prison for.) He loved the older man and in loving him he provided Peter the ammunition and the power to hurt him. Which gave the agent the power to hurt him. 

Her thumbs were still playing Ernest Bloch’s ‘Nigun’ on his wrists. The man in the 3sixteen jeans felt his heart do ce do as he responded with a barley audible, “yes please.” Grace squeezed the surface below her hands gently before returning his borrow limbs to the wooden table below them. Her right hand found his wind-chapped cheek; she held his gaze and nodded. The man in the shitkicker boots shifted to allow for the growing need at his apex. 

He forked another bite of the culinary delights so he wouldn’t appraise the lady in yellow of the change in his weather patterns. He needn’t have worried she was already cognizant of the altered state. Not wanting to further disrupt his apple cart she regained her hand to the table. Then palmed her yellow mug and sipped at the cooling java.

After the man in the gray Henley and simple black over shirt washed down the bite peppers and onions with the spiced coffee he held worked to find and hold Grace’s gaze. Neal poured all he had into his skint on words but not on sentiment reply, “go raibh maith agat.” (Thank you.) 

For the remainder of the meal and quite some time after the Irish duo rested their weary bones and dolorous hearts in a companionable silence filled with memories of times long past. Each fighting demons and chasing angels in their minds, neither deck occupant felt the need to say anything. 

Eventually Neal found his mind wander towards the puzzling conundrum of what arcana lay dormant in the treasure chest along her muted corn silk wall. Grace sensing his unrequited love for her family heirloom, wandered down the maudlin path of what happened when the man across from her was in possession of the knowledge hidden in the catacombs of the trunk he was so entranced by.

As the snow found its way over the railing and onto the boards below their feet the woman of the loft rose to clear the table and relocate them to the warmer destination of her sitting area which just happened to have an unobstructed line of sight to her portmanteau. 

The man with the sable hair was just that much quicker scooping them up. Reiterating her earlier grin and wink Neal sashayed through the open French doors with exaggerated flourish. He could her the dulcet sounds of her throaty chuckle in the background as he waltzed like Matilda all the way to the sink.

After completing the simple albeit welcomed domestic task of cleaning and rinsing the daisy colored dishes. The injured man turned to the lady in the jeans that hugged her callipygian like butter to bread had. All the necessities for rebandaging his physical wounds had been splayed across the island in methodical order. As his eyes washed over the ointments, wraps and tape then towards the dishes drying in the rack and finally her adeptly tossed knife it occurred to him that the enigma of bare feet before him was helping him to heal so much more than the circles around his wrists.

It was as if she could materialize and dematerlize at will. The back of Neal’s 3sixteen jeans found the seat of the stool the nursemaid had thoughtfully pulled out. How had his well-honed thief senses not detected her presence? Silent running he mused. Ms. Carney was very adept at the submarine stealth tactic known as silent running. Often confused with the 1958 black and white war film titled Run Silent, Run Deep.

Neal shook his head of the errant silent thoughts and placed his hands out palms down on the counter. He pressed his skin down with negligible pressure more so to stay the random bursts of nerves twitching through his fingers like rocks in an avalanche than out of self-flagellation. The lady still attired in her garden filled apron eased ointment along the parts of his skin that still weltered like a rock-lined stream. 

So little experience had he with genuine physical kindness offered without ulterior motives that the man being attended to found he could not break his focus with the procedure. She was hyper vigilant in her quest to minister without adding additional pain or harm. Neal pushed his steal-toed boots into the facing on her island as he blinked to break the trance.

Without warning or preamble the District of Columbia Native whispered out, “I wish I had known you years ago.” 

When Neal finally mustered up the testicular fortitude to look the lady in yellow in the face he saw the unvarnished looking of understanding, he could barely hear her reply, “if there was one immutable truth about life Sléibhe (mountain), it was often more cruel than it was kind.” 

When she finished with the binding his external wounds Grace placed her right hand in his now upturned palm noting the small white lines that littered the space like tick marks on a wall. Her left found the bruised area about his forearm, careful to not increase pressure along his fault line. 

“I am honored to know you now.” When the nursemaid felt the muscles beneath her tense she eased her violin solo-playing thumb into the chords right below his rolled cuff. Her body automatically pressed into his side unconsciously hoping to provide comfort. The smell of his sandalwood soap permeated her senses like exotic spices at a market.

Neal felt his heart rate increase as if he just jumped off a skyscraper. He tried to control his breathing to no avail. The breaths shot out of him in random bursts of air like steam from a boiling pot. The sous chef found he did know what to do with the air hovering around them. It was as if they were teetering along the peak of Mount Kilimanjaro. 

Neal Runs. That is what his FBI file said. He could feel the need to run so deep in his gut that his hand fisted around her digits without informing him of the action. The man on the stool with his shitkickers resting against the bottom of the reclaimed wood island didn’t know how to process visceral reactions firing off like canons in his soul.

He had to move now; he could feel his volcano threatening imminent rupture. Suddenly he shot up of the stool as if someone had jabbed his haunches with a red-hot poker. “Would you mind if I saw to some other needs?” The gentleman rushed out with the speed of an auctioneer at Tiffany’s. Neal jerked his head towards the ajar bathroom door with more a spasm than a nod. Realizing he was still tethered to the lady in braids his released the vice grip on her hand with all possible haste. It wasn’t the farthest destination the work released felon had every scampered off to, it was just all available to him at the moment. 

Grace stepped back her arms open as she bid her guest, “take all the time you need Sléibhe.” (Mountain.) 

The five foot eleven man unconsciously wrinkled his nose at the moniker. He needed to regain his composure the barefoot woman could see it in the way the man’s shoulder bowed in towards his chest. In the way his walk was uneven; his feet turned in just the barest hint of hints towards each other and his hand clenched at his sides as if he pushed the air down to keep him alighted. 

Grace’s inspection stayed downward her brown eyes focused on the old worn Harley Davidson boots upon her visitor with the bloodshot eyes and need to flee the scene’s feet. The fact that a man known for cutting a fine swath, for his dapper attire and debonair flare wore ugly ass footwear that should have been put to pasture ages and a day ago was telling. What message they needed to relay remained to be seen. 

As the fleeing convict was about to close the barrier between maintaining a facade and his world collapsing he heard a voice from the kitchen, “and remember to put the seat down.” Neal couldn’t contain the nervous laugh the bubbled forth at such a simple domestic request. He shut the door with a click before sinking down on the rim of the tub like rocks to the forest floor with an enervated sigh.

Upon his exit from his extended bathroom stay Neal saw that all evidence of her patchwork supplies had been removed. In their place two newly cleaned buttercream mugs waiting for steaming hot contents. “What do you say to some cocoa?” Her hand was already at the kettle checking the water levels. 

“I think cocoa sounds like the bees knees,” the former Bennett offered with a genuine smile. Neal had been able to calm the raging waters that churned in his soul while holed up in the safety of the water closet. He had been able to submerge his face in water and scream. It helped him tremendously. 

As much as he had wanted to be a sneaky sneak from sneakerville, the thief in him fought the urge to riffle through her personal affairs. When he looked for an extra hand towel he came across her lady business things and well it set him straight about not investigating any further. 

While awaiting the lady of the lofts arrival the man in the custom made jeans absently teased at the sleeves on his shirts while having an underscored stare off with the chest that called to him like a lighthouse to a lost sailor. 

Grace patiently observed him from a spot behind the couch. His attention was locked on target with her family heirloom. She wondered what in blue corn blazes he expected to be in there. The way he stared at the chest like a lover ready for bed she thought about offering them some alone time.

“Sléibhe,” (mountain) the culinary cognoscente of chocolate whispered as she slid around the furniture towards the five foot eleven mountain resting in her plain. Startled by her sudden appearance next to him the normally unflappable thief near jumped at the unexpected interruption to his ocular combat with scroll lined antique traveling case.

Neal found her face with aphonic interpellation, “how are you able to appear and disappear?” Her eyebrows raised and for the split second of time it takes the grain of salt in the hourglass to tick the man thought he had lent actual voice to the question. Her hand was warm from the mug she held out for transfer. As his fingers graced along side hers to receive the witch’s brew he saw her glance back at the shelving unit along the wall. Had he provided words to air?

Appariationing as she was able to do was a learned art. Someone or multiple someone’s had educated her on the ways of the phantasming. Neal rubbed his shoulder at a memory that sprang for from the recesses of his mind. It had been a cold day in September; they had been in the middle of a lesson. His Uncle the prizefighter snapped him back against the wall with the force of a ship to a piling, thus scudding the joint out of socket. 

He hadn’t lent tears tracks to cheeks that day. It was a sad accomplishment to be proud of yet his ten year old self was. He felt like the like a messed up version of the Johnson and Johnson slogan, No More Tears. Somewhere inside the younger (and present day) Caffrey knew if he had cried his Uncle would have provided him a much harsher gateway to make the tears fall.

Long after his Ma had found slumber, he hugged his one working arm around his knees, replaying the older man’s monition in his head, “caithfidh tú do cheachtanna a fhoghlaim.” (You have to learn your lessons.) One of the lessons he learned that day was how to enter and exit a building with no one the wiser. Another was how to due it in pain.

Out of his periphery Neal saw Grace snuggle down crossed legged in the chair astride the coffee table. Her cocoa found partnership with the swirls and whirls about the varnished wooden surface. As the five foot five woman wiggled her toes the blue-eyed observer espied a meandering riverbed that covered the base of her foot. That scar was antique compared to most previously viewed ones.

The artist lowered his bag of bones onto the couch with a weary sigh of the damned. The preceding week had been rife with battle and bloodshed. While he and Peter endured the campaigns with fortitude and an unflinching credence in the other, it didn’t mean the hits didn’t leave marks.

Neal sat his cocoa down and simply sat in silence. He knew he should try and fill it, there was so much he wanted to say and maybe even (if he were ready to admit it to himself) needed to say. Or really (if he were also ready to admit more to himself) ask. His eyes found the wall across from the couch. He didn’t so much stare at it as avoid staring at the trunk.

Grace sat cross-legged in the chair quietly sipping as the man on the couch rested his gaze on the unadorned walls across from him. The lady in her favorite old worn jeans and bare feet could see it was not the blank space that held her visitors attention. It was a video reel for his eyes only. 

Later than sooner his eyes weltered over to the woman who had welcomed him into her home. The smile that met him calefaciented through his veins like lava crashing from a volcano. Neal could feel a clonus in his heart. His long fingers grabbed at the mug like a life raft to a drowning man. The man on the couch forced himself to break contact with the lady in braids.

The woman in the chair took no offense to aborted eye anchoring. It had been tumultuous week filled with one performance after another. His mind must be whirling like a tornado about to ravage the field. His soul a battered ship against the rocks. She found his boots wondering not for the first time why it was important to him that she had chance to see them. Grace could discern no other logical reason for such hideously ugly footwear. Her focus lifted supernal. His blue eyes were back at her trunk. Really maybe she should secure the two of them a room.

When Neal finally broke the silence of the sipping it was to question the lady of the loft. “Why are your walls bare?” Her toe flexed in the air as she sipped at her cocoa thoughtfully weighing whatever it was she was going to say. His hands unconsciously tightened on the ceramic cocoa dispenser. 

The lady across from him still felt the need to censor herself. Neal found his heart hurt more than he thought possible at the fact she might need to edit with him. Even after allowing him into her home, even exposing near all her expanse to him, even after calling him Sléibhe. (mountain) The bond forger swallowed down the building pressure in his throat it was like a geyser ready to blow. 

Neal took a steading breath allowing the agreement to wash out to sea. There were many parts of his past he wasn’t ready to share with anyone even himself. Allowing someone into the recesses of your soul was exposing a nakedness unlike that of skin, once done there was no amount of covering that would recloak it into the safety of the unknown. His bloodshot blue eyes found the trunk again.

All his lover in the nighttime looks at the scrollwork-covered portmanteau and the man on the couch wanted to know about her lack of wall covering? Grace fought the urge to ask him if they needed some private alone time. Instead she replied with an earnest, “I do have art on the walls.” 

Blue eyes moved around the room at the speed of a geriatric sloth on sedatives. The artist made sure to look up and down and side to side, just in case the he missed a painting, a sculpture, a picture, anything on the still clearly empty walls. When Neal finally finished his reassessment of the continued unadorned walls he rested his gaze on her freckled face. He might not have challenged her with word. The look on his face required no voicing to understand, ‘really?’

The lady with art on her walls felt a tintibulation in her neck. Her pulse was pounding like federal agents were at the door. The mug in her hand felt like an anchor keeping her grounded. If she provided him a private viewing of the artwork there was no going back. Whatever he thought he knew would be confirmed beyond a shadow of doubt. 

The yellow mug landed center a notch on the coffee table with nary a sound. Her feet found the rug as her body alighted out of the chair with the grace of someone who knew exactly how to control the movements of their body. Her feet so littered with permanent reminders of battles past that the unmarred parts were what seemed out of place almost floated as they found the path that led towards the rear of the loft. 

Neal observed the way she placed her feet almost over each other as if she were walking on a tight rope. His eyes traveled up her backside watching as her callipygian swayed and her hips moved as if listening to the beat of a song and she needed to keep in step. His private affairs reminded him of their presence about the time his eyes made it to the braids that danced a jig about her back. 

Not knowing if he should follow the dancer on her path or not Neal beat feet to join Grace. His Harley Davidsons made a slight scuff sound as they merged off the rug onto the hardwood floors. Cairbre Caffrey’s training seeped back into the balls of his feet. The man who had survived the winter siege in the Missouri barn followed the tightrope walkers path in equal silence. 

Her hand hovered over the doorknob as a feather might dance in the wind. Despite the taciturn manner with which he moved Grace could sense the man behind her. The slightly uneven fall of his feet thanks to the government shackle about his ankle. 

When the former Bennett partnered the current Carney at door it dawned on him that what lay behind the barrier was the barefoot woman’s bedroom. Neal felt his haunches tighten in consternation. This had to be the first time in the history of his adulthood he hesitated to enter a boudoir. 

No matter this sojourn wasn’t to involve the carnal arts, she was still demur in her decision to invite him pass the threshold. It was the nervous intake of breath he gave, the minute tremor in his hand, the barely perceptible widening of his eyes upon recognition of what was beyond the door. She worked the handle (that sometimes stuck like an over jellied jar lid) and eased the barrier back.

Neal’s shitkickers halted at the framework as if an invisible force field locked in place. The lady of the bedroom turned at the man stopping short as if a magnet pulled him away from the entrance with force. He shook his head no to her. Her eyes were overflowing with understanding and something neither of them could give name too. The man in the black western shirt and bound wrists was showing deference to the woman who showed him dignity and a grace that far exceeded her name. 

Her head inclined towards a near threadbare, torn and frayed lap quilt festooned with braided cording from another time and another world. Most of the patch worked squares mimicked the old, worn oft-antique cargo strewn about the wooden shelves in the main area. An unconscious grimace found his features as he honed in on the barn in the corner.

Neal closed his personal windows for a moment before reopening them to the hand embroidered wagon wheel that took up the four squares in the center. His eyes moved to the lady of the bedroom. They stayed on hers for such an extended duration that the man felt the earth move beneath his feet. 

Neal tilted his head towards the quilt owner he felt his errant curl slide over forehead before obscuring his vision as a storm cloud might block out the sun. There was a heaviness in the air a cyclone that whirled around them as if safeguarding them in a cocoon. 

The five foot eleven man in the 3sixteen jeans didn’t know what to do with the level of faith afforded him. The gift the lady in braids proffered him in allowing him a private viewing of the quilt above the bed was more prized than anything she could offer on the mattress below it. 

Not a single other person in his life had provided him something so sacred. Not Kate who would have thought this heirloom old, raggy and not worth the tacks it took to mount. Nor Sara who would have wondered why one would have kept something so obviously threadbare and haggard in appearance. 

Despite his early uglier ponderings he knew that Mozzie loved him. Moz meant it when he called him Mon frere. (my brother) To the Dentist of Detroit the young man from District of Columbia by way of Missouri was his brother, end of story. Still the man was a con at heart and there would always be a lack of trust despite the funny man in glasses ready, willing and able to go to the mattresses for him. 

Faith might ride shotgun when trust found the trunk. He knew in his heart of hearts that Peter trusted that no matter what Neal would protect him, much to the lawman’s dismay his CI had proven that beyond question. The felon also knew that the federal agent would go to the ends of the earth to save him and that the man whose sole philosophy on expressing emotion could be summed up in the two words Cowboy Up cared for him as more than property he could return at anytime. 

This was something all together different. The man with the extensive lexicon couldn’t remember a single time in his life he was so without words to express the depth of what he was feeling at being afforded such an unparalleled offer of there wasn’t even a word for it. When words finally found him all he could offer was, “yes I can see that you do.”

His steel-toed boots braced against the wooden framing of the doorway while his body filled the framing. Neal scanned the room as if he were recording it onto a camera phone not just in his memory palace for later viewing. He watched as the Traveler touched the corner of the fabric with a sweep of fingers. 

Blue eyes passed over the queen sized bed centered to the back wall and the simple no frills dark gray (curious it wasn’t black) flannel comforter a top it noting the two beside tables with the small handcrafted lamps. Resting on the one closest the window was a book; the pages were turned to him so the recorder wasn’t able to make out the tittle.

There was a recently recovered chair by the window. The tapestry that bound the overstuffed armchair was a forest resplendent with trees. Along the wall to his left shoulder there was a dresser that complimented the lines of the pieces that hugged her pallet. A small hand carved box rested in the center with a wooden bowl on either side. 

When Grace’s bare feet made tracks towards the doorframe he rested in Neal could feel the barometric change in her. He could see the crimson flush across her mountainous expanse, the clouds hovering in her brown eyes, the way she rubbed at her wrists. 

“Ní i bpíosaí,”(Not in pieces) the words left him before the man in the rolled cuffs knew what he had said. His hand found hers in an effort to provide an anchor to the storm rusticating in her heart. The man in the 3sixteen jeans stepped closer into her space asking without words to share more of her, without pausing to debate her body weltered into his. 

The man with the bound wrists remembered the first time he had chance to view a Tesla Coil, the resonant electric currents with their lightening snapping at the air in an iniquitous macabre dance of eburnean light. The coil produced high voltage, low current, and high frequency alternating streams, a transmission of electrical energy without the use of wires. 

Neal could feel the flow of charge in one or more directions, as his body became a conductor for the energy coursing through her like shockwaves. Every nerve in his body fired simultaneously as he absorbed her currents like a wet sponge soaked in water. He knew the exact moment she registered his private affairs becoming public to her knowledge. 

“Ní i bpíosaí,”(Not in pieces) she mussed out to the area below her lips, his rapidly beating heart.

An alarm (not Metallica he noted) on her phone choose that exact moment to announce itself from the safety of the handmade worktable in the main area. Neal almost jumped out of his skin when Casta Diva from Bellini’s Norma surged through the air shattering the quiet between them that might not have been as peaceful as it was peace filled. 

Maria Callas continued singing about faithful primal love oblivious to the discomfort of her listeners. His body instantly missed hers as she eased past him to bring lown to the space once more. The startled man ran a hand over his apex in an effort to push down all that occurred while standing in the in between. The symbolism of the doorframe was not lost on him. 

The seasoned burglar’s feet were heavy as they trudged towards the chocolate colored couch. Neal collapsed into the cushions his body a depined grenade ready to explode on impact. His eyes found hers as he questioned the Italian Opera excerpt interrupting their time under the wagon wheel. “Do you have an affinity for Opera in the cresting of the sun?” He might have lent humor to the delivery but the darkness of his eyes let her know the gravitas of the question.

The couch sitter watched the lady standing against the table with her hand hovering over the harbinger of song. Her brown eyes were still filled with the lightening storm that had ravaged their landscapes. The lady in yellow balanced, measured and mixed her words before pouring them out into the space between them. 

“Yes I do.” She smiled out with a small laugh hoping to ease the tension that blanketed the room like haboob of emotion filled confetti. Her hands were clasped so tight in prayer the bracelets around her wrists glowed like crimson manacles trapping her to where she stood. Her body wound so tight she was like an overheated light bulb ready to burst.

Knowing the concupiscence shooting through the air like fireworks on the Fourth of July would only increase the longer they stayed locked in the confines of the unadorned walls room the lady of the loft headed towards the front door where the coat rack pegs were. Grace worked to settle her ragged I just hiked the summit breaths. 

Neal looked over at the woman by the door then towards her trunk finally his gaze settled at the center of nothing on the singly of art wall affront him. The native of DC felt a pressing need. His eyes did an about face to where the door of retiring room stood closed. With a hop and a pop the work released felon’s feet found the plush rug before he scampered over to the one place in the loft he could secure privacy.

Upon his exit the man with the newly splashed face found the lady of the loft wrapped up in her favorite wool winter coat, her ungloved hands resting inside the pockets. Her freckled face (her cheek scar visible with close inspection) awash in the effulgent sunlight of a smile. 

Grace tapped her foot in tune to music only she could hear. Neal’s blue eyes honed in on the never before seen footwear (apparently the day for it.) The kitchen magician had traded in her trusty Doc Martins with the pink laces for an old worn pair of black (because of course) Ariat muck boots. 

The man in the 3sixteen jeans racked his eyes appraisingly over the rest of her body. The lady in the worn blue jeans with the frayed hems was all woman. She had curves for miles and miles. He swallowed at the memory of her melting into his body like butter to a hot pan just moments ago. In an effort to dull the flashback the man continued his inspection. 

The appraiser noted a knitted black cap sans puff that snugged over her head and pierced ears. He took in the way her left braid rested over her overtly erect back while the naughty right one rested along her coats buttons. As he inched closer to her Neal could make out the weaves of his borrowed scarf. The angora neckwear was secured around her still flushed though obscured neck.

The newly returned gentleman inched toward the lady until they were standing booted toe to booted toe. His twinkling blue eyes found her dancing brown ones. Without looking at the hook Grace’s ungloved hand found his Berluti Men’s Leather and Shearling jacket with the asymmetrical zipper. 

She held the coat open for him to slip his arms into. As the five foot eleven man was sliding his limbs down the Sherpa lining he felt the warmth of her silhouette behind him. As the covering found his shoulders, her hands found the back hem pulling it down into place right above the crest of his hills. His mind flashed back to the in-between where she had melted against him like a rushing river to rocks. An errant nerve akin to a random Tesla lighting strike jumped along the length of his private affairs. 

Neal waited for his wave to recede back into the ocean before turning around to meet his companion with a hoarse, “where are we off to?” Her eyes twinkled flashed radiant sparkles under the rays of the recessed lighting. The visitor waited for the lady to open the door aback her. His ears prepared to hear the agonizing scream of the damned as the door inched along the track.

When she stepped away from the door towards the hall that would lead to the recently occupied bedroom Neal brought a hand out to stay her in question. Thinking she might lend a worded answered or at the very least point or nod to where they might be headed the sable haired man couldn’t contain his momentary shock when her ungloved hand found his. Grace left it unmoving allowing him the choice to release her grasp or close in on it. His artist’s fingers slid through hers. 

“Come Sléibhe, (mountain) let us explore.” The in the wool head covering noted the wrinkle of his nose at the sobriquet she had levied upon him. Her freckles danced a jig at the laugh she gave. Grace squeezed his paw in her mit before letting the digits fall. Without needing to see behind her the lady walked a perfect line backwards towards the end of the walkway all while maintaining eye contact and a huge smile. Neal cocked his head in question.

The Ariat boots halted in front of a here to fore not seen door just off the back hallway. Her hands pulled at a diminutive lever. Unconsciously Neal’s ears prepared for a cacophony of sound while his eyes followed as the metal barrier rolled back into the alcove of the wall. The burglar in him eyed the delitescent access point with the keen interest of a structural engineer. 

Another part of him, the latent section of his soul that longed for someone to simply trust him found the bricks that held that protective barrier upright were crumbling. He watched as she practically skipped to her Lou down the first few stairs. Her voice traveled up, “I know it’s not the underskirt of my trunk Sléibhe.” (mountain) Neal’s nervous laughed bounced off the brick walls lining the space, “its only a hidden stairwell” she offered as her boots continued their obmutescent decent towards an unknown to the man aback her’s destination, “don’t you want to see where it leads?” 

December 6, 2013, The Burke Residence, 1:34PM

Peter sat at his kitchen island a smile played at his lips while he watched his official phone spin around like a mop in Fantasia. Round and round the ma bell connector went like a ballerina at center stage still he made no move to interrupt the pirouette. His hand balanced in the air above the device waiting for the spin right round to halt. 

The agent held off checking the electronic tracking data through the Marshal service. First by doing the small pile of waiting dishes in the sink (he may have let them pile up while El was away.) Then by preparing another pot of much needed coffee and his famous in the Burke Household French toast (his one claim to breakfast cooking fame) for his soon to be arriving spouse. Then by a little one on one wink wink nudge nudge time. 

The man perched on the center of the stool was more interested to see if his young friend was still on the island than to verify he had actually made it to the destination. There was no way the man who left him some few hours ago with a hop skip and jump in his step didn’t head straight to the lady with the beautiful brown eyes. 

Peter couldn’t contain the ear-to-ear grin that found his face when Grace Carney’s address stared back at him. Neal had made a friend in her a true friend. A small part of him worried what would happen when more of her history (and present) came to the former Bennett’s attention. Peter flashed on the waiting room right after she had been admitted; he shrugged to himself while he continued with his grin. That was another challenge for another day.

The homeowner heard the telltale creak of the townhome’s stairs. The cacophony heralded the entrance of his resplendent amazing wife. 

“Hon, you look like the cat who found the canary,” El laughed out as she ruffled the back of her husbands neck, teasing along the edges of his hair knowing it would drive him to distraction. Peter snagged his wife’s hips pulling her in close. The lady with the blue eyes and over kissed lips smiled as her task had accomplished its intended goal. 

El nestled down between her husbands open legs snuggling in close. She rested her newly showered forearms on his shoulders as her fingers tickled at his the haunches of his shoulder blades. She smiled wide as he breathed in the scents of her mint shampoo before she asked, “What has you so happy?” 

“I spent the entire morning with my wife.” Peter replied his face full of a raging fever only one drug could cure. His eyes weltered over her the curves of her breasts as they strained against the camisole trying to contain them. His hands moved playfully off her hips his fingers slid under the hem of the cotton blockade easing their way towards the mountainous region of her landscape. Elizabeth’s body reacted on instinct to her husband’s well-honed touch.

“Thats nice hon.” El mussed out in a rushed breath.

Peter watched as his handling of her enbowments encouraged a flush across her body. He smiled smugly as he continued on with his kneading. He could see her sea blue eyes glassing over as he continued his ministrations to her erogenous location.

“And I quite enjoyed spending the entire morning with my husband,” the spouse made sure to match the inflection on entire as her husband did, “still that is not what that first smile was about.” Elizabeth felt her toes dig into the kitchen flooring. Her sneaky husband knew exactly how to work her system.

El’s thighs rested against Peter’s. He could feel the quiver and shake they gave as a low throat moan escaped her reddened lips. He smiled at his wife, their special smile. There was a comfort in having someone know the insides and outsides of you as El did him. The man on the stool shifted to allow her body more access his boxers sliding with ease across the polished surface. 

“No hon, it wasn’t,” the agent replied his brown eyes darkened as his wife’s fingers ran down the length of his chest he hoped she would inch lower towards a more Southern location. Peter made no move to further expound on his answer and smart woman that she was El made no move to push. They both knew he would share when he was ready.

Much to Peter’s dismay El’s fingers stopped at his waistband then slid back up his chest and eventually rested for a moment on his shoulders. She kissed him quickly before waving her hand in the air like a magic wand over his less than expecting visitor’s sartorial choice, “aren’t you expecting a knock at the back door Mr. Suit?” 

Peter smiled at his wife before tugging her down into a deep end of the ocean kiss. When the raven haired beauty stepped back her cheeks flush and her eyes smoldering with campfire heat she patted the inside of his thigh promising things to come after their yet to arrive visitor took his leave. 

The fifty year old looked down at his lack of proper for anyone but his spouse covering. “Right,” he chuckled full of mirth and bedevilment, “Moz probably doesn’t want to know if I am a boxers or briefs man.” Peter hopped off the chair with a bit too much bounce in his step.

It was the wife’s turn to laugh, “Probably not Mr. Suit,” El smiled as she watched the sway of her husband’s hindquarters as they progressed across the living room floor. The six foot two man could still hear her giggling as he mounted the stairs towards a much-needed shower.

At 6:00PM on the dot there was a knock, soft knock, knock at the back door of the brownstone at 106 Cambridge Place. The homeowner answered the request with a wide open door, a smile and a welcoming glass of red wine for the entrant. Moz looked at the wine with pause, then at the man holding it with question, then the wine before releaving the agent of the Sine Qua Non Dark Blossom. 

“Thank you Suit, such service!” The newly arrived Michigan native went to take a sip of the Syrah known for its blend of blackcurrants, pepper and Peking duck he hesitated. With a stone cold serious face and nary a twinkle in his eye the balding man asked “wait did you mix in arsenic?” 

Peter simply laughed at what he knew to be good-natured ribbing as he shut the back door to the raging winter winds of the outside. After the funny little man with glasses had drained the stemware of its licorice rich contents he turned to face the man in jeans and a faded baseball tee shirt.

With a voice thick with worry though no recrimination the older man noted the younger stated, “I saw his wrists.”

Moz watched as the Suit’s face drained of all color, the laughter and teasing of the moments before dissipated into the air hovering about them like fog at midnight in Hunts Point. Clouds rolled past the window aback him, half shadowing the lawman in darkness. The wine drinker found that an apt representation of the man in front of him, always half in the shadows. 

“It got out of hand, “ The agent started to respond to the statement that was clearly a question.

“I think you mean it got in his hand Suit,” The Dentist of Detroit finished with more kindness than the abuser felt he deserved. That the little man who was so distrustful of the government he had a dozen safe houses, an armory of burner phones and several identities would allow him grace, Peter didn’t even know what to say. Somewhere in the past few months they had gone from being adversaries in the age old battle of the law vs. the con to what one might consider friends. 

Moz shuffled over to the island at a sedate pace. He uncorked the resting bottle with a corkscrew hooked onto his messenger bag and poured another glass of the Ventura County wine before continuing on his course of Neal investigation, “I stopped to see him today. I found he was not in residence at June’s.” 

Peter found the handle of the refrigerator; his eyes looked in the visitor’s general location before he opened the door and secured a beer bottle from the top shelf. The agent knew the man in Converse was fishing with what little bait he had available. The bantam man had no idea where he Mon frère (brother) was. 

“Where ever he is Moz.” The beer drinker popped the cap off the bottle his brown eyes watched it arc in a perfect rainbow before landing in the sink. “He is in his radius.” Peter offered noncommittally to an answer as he took a much-needed drag of the Belgian White by the Matt Brewery. 

The lawman was not aware of any disclosure made about the lady on the island and her association with the man in the tracking anklet to his guest. If Neal had not shared about Grace it was not his place too either. Though he imaged sooner rather than later that would become in material. All the worlds a stage and they were all players in it. Even if there were in different acts a forth-coming table read seemed inevitable.

Sensing his round about way of securing the information was not going to provide what he was searching for the bespeckled man was more direct, “Why did you place him in irons Suit?” Mozzie needed to know if it was part of the act or if something else had transpired causing the man with the blue eyes to wind up in handcuffs. The response he received would be the guide for how he handled the next few minutes and the parceling out of all that he had learned on his hunting expedition. 

The sigh that escaped Peter, the collapse of his erect back and straight shoulders, the low-key shaking of the beer bottle in his left hand advised the balding observer that whatever had occurred to bring about the bruises and blood aggrieved them both. Moz found his often joked about small heart soften at the distress and heartbreak that littered the expanse of the agent across from him. 

Peter took a sip of the upstate New York brew, letting the liquid coat his throat and work at settling the shark chummed waters of his stomach. He took a deep bolstering breath of air before finding the visitors face “it was all part of the charade at the office.” 

The homeowners empty hand found the safety of the counter to rest on, his index finger absently picking at splintered piece of wood. “We had discussed what was to happen prior to the enacting of the events.” 

Moz regarded the sight of the emotional insanguinated man before him; the Suit’s eyes were locked on an image only he could see. The man still cocooned in outwear needed to fend of the winters screams of white agony was firm but gentle so as not to startle the man in the worn tee shirt, “Neal knows how not to hurt himself in cuffs.” Sadly, both men standing in the Burke kitchen knew this to be an indisputable fact born out of the inordinate amount of time their friend spent in shackles. 

“It was part of the show.” Estelle’s owner stated more then interpellated. 

Still pealing away the layers on the table as if he could just dig deep enough maybe he would remove the mark on his heart the man in the blue jeans finished off, “Yes Moz it was part of the performance.” 

The beer drinker took a small sip before adding, “We had an unexpected complication.” Peter could still see the former Bennett’s blood pooling on the table… “Because of that his wrists slipped and what you saw was the result.” That was as parallel to the truth without exposing that with which Neal might not want disclosed at this juncture in their road as the brown-eyed man could offer. 

The blue eyed man paused for a second swirling the crimson liquid about the Burke’s stemware. It was evident, highly evident how sick with shame the Suit was. That he brought about damage to the young man they cared so much for was written so clearly on his face it was like a bus stop bench ad for a man hunched in dolor. Whatever had happened was not planned and the two men still continued to beat at themselves long after the incident had passed. 

Making a decision the man in his favorite monochromatic footwear with the double laces set his wine glass down on the surface affront them, “I come bearing gifts.” 

Moz pulled out a small stack of files. At the agents raised eyebrow, the profferer of the cumshaw tapped the folders adding almost under his breath “there will be more of these. Until then.” 

The recently returned hunters face weltered into a mask of excitement at having discovered the treasure tinged with the fury of knowing that the lagniappe would bring about war not peace. His hands once again delved into his Army green messenger bag with the patch of a pigeon stitched into the bottom left hand corner of the flap. Ever the showman the shorter man took his time pulling out his visual aids. Moz let a loose a little drumroll sound then splayed the high resolution color photographs across the table as a magician would a deck of cards, before doing the razzle dazzle ta-da with his hands, “many many gifts.”

The lawman in Peter wanted to take the time to look over all the thief in the night secured for his appraisal, yet it was the photo at the center of the fan that was the cynosure of his focus. The friend and whatever else he would never be able to name to Neal in Peter felt his nuts clang like Newton’s cradle. His brown eyes found Mozzie’s blue. The shorter man understood all the man in jeans was trying to say without ever lending voice to one word.

Peter brought his gaze back down to the information in front of them. He couldn’t seem to break his attention for the image of the warm handshake of the men in the photo. The disjecta membra of past events were starting to form a larger image at the end of the evidentiary kaleidoscope.

Moz was talking, the lawman knew he should be listening, “There are hours of tape I have yet to transcribe Suit.” 

The agent nodded absently while he knew whatever was recorded, as being said between the two denizens of Hell would lend credence and support to their quest. It was the ramifications of what these two people knowing each other meant that was foremost in his mind. And how he and Moz should approach the sharing of this newly garnered information with their shared friend.

As the starting pistol at a race had been fired in the air of the kitchen Peter broke from his entrancement of the photographic evidence. His hands rubbed together while a smile found his face. He turned a warm look at the bespeckled man, “Mozzie this is…” the agents voice trailed off he wasn’t sure how to describe the important discovery. He was sure however, on how much effort went into securing it, “… you are brilliant!” Peter reached over to the visitor and squeezed the shorter man’s shoulder. 

Moz could feel his face blushing in crimson heat as if he stood affront a fiery furnace. He was unaccustomed to praise or displays of affection from people. Most especially from the resolute almost unswerving in his alpha maleness FBI man. Regaining some composure and his own brand of wit, the man in the overcoat replied, “yes well there is no need to yell it out.” 

Needing to focus on something calming for a moment the Michigan native stepped back and removed his harbinger of informational tidings. Then set about the arduous task of removing the many layers of his winter coverings. Specks of pearlized winter tears fluttered to the ground as he laid the clothing along the back of a kitchen chair. 

After Moz had divested himself of the unneeded clothing, he carded up all he had laid out on the island. He welcomed the blast of heat from the radiator grill before he relocated the photos to the larger welcoming surface of the kitchen table. 

His ring adorned hands pulled out the chair in front of him. The metal jewelry knocked against the wood as if to say ‘honey I am home.’ The right foot of the man in the Charles Barkley footwear kicked the chair to side with a bit of flourish, his eyebrows raised with his hands as he found the homeowners face, “Suit we have work to do.” 

When work released felon first joined the white collar division the agent checked his tracking data as a way to confirm his control over the young man’s errant ways. As time passed Peter found he checked it to make sure his friend had not decided to step away from their life together. At that present the man in his kitchen checked to make sure the man with the blue eyes hadn’t strayed from what might be his last peace filled day for sometime. 

With one last look at the blinker in the same place it had been since leaving the brownstone hours and hours ago Peter smiled at he placed the phone face down on the table, tapping the top for good measure. A steady hand found his hair as the homeowner pushed the lose wisp’s that sought to obscure his sightline out of his way. 

The fifty year old nodded at the photo that lay atop the recently relocated pile, the wheels in his brain whirling at the speed of a twin-turbocharged direct injected V8 Ferrari F154, “yes Moz.” He placed his beer bottle down with a resolute clink. He reached his hand towards the picture of the smug smiling bastards, “it appears we do.”

A/N: Just in Case…

Irish to English Translations Are As Follows:

Tá a fhios agam cad a chiallaíonn sé chun páirt a ghlacadh. = I know what it means to play a part.

Tá a fhios agam cad a chiallaíonn sé a bheith agat do chuid féin a cheilt. Do chuid féin fíor. Nó cad atá fágtha de do chuid féin fíor. = I know what it means to have to hide yourself, your true self, or what remains of your true self.

Agus tá a fhios agam cad é cuid de tú féin a cheilt. Cuid, mar sin mared, ní féidir leat a leigheas riamh. = And I now what it is to hide a part of yourself. A part so mared, you can never heal.

Tá tú bruscar Grainne = You are trash Grace

Tóg tú féin amach = Take yourself out 

Sléibhe = Mountain

I ndáiríre = Seriously

Go raibh maith agat. = Thank you

Caithfidh tú do cheachtanna a fhoghlaim = You have to learn your lessons

Ní i bpíosaí = Not in pieces

French to English Translations Are As Follows:

Trancheur = Artistic Carver

Mon Frere = My Brother


End file.
